LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


UNDER   THE   TREES 


Books  &g  ifir. 

MY  STUDY  FIRE 

MY  STUDY  FIRE,  SECOND  SERIES 

UNDER  THE  TREES  AND  ELSEWHERE 

SHORT  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE 

ESSAYS  IN  LITERARY  INTERPRETATION 

ESSAYS  ON  NATURE  AND  CULTURE 

BOOKS  AND  CULTURE 

ESSAYS  ON  WORK  AND  CULTURE 

THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SPIRIT 

NORSE  STORIES 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

FOREST  OF  ARDEN 

CHILD  OF  NATURE 

WORKS  AND  DAYS 


JJNDER  THE  TREES 
AND  ELSEWHERE  *  BY 

HAMILTON  WRIGHT  MABIE 

\v\ 


NEW  YORK:  PUBLISHED  BY 
DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
MDCCCCII 


f 


Copyright,  1891  and 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

All  rights  raer"ved 


UNIVERSITY    PRESS    •    JOHN    WILSON 
AND    SON     •      CAMBRIDGE,     U.S.A. 


TO 
MY    FRIENDS   IN    ARDEN 

C.  B.  Y. 

AND 

M.  Y.  W. 


Contents 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    AN  APRIL  DAY I 

II.  UNDER  THE  APPLE  BOUGHS      ...  9 

III.  ALONG  THE  ROAD  —  I 16 

IV.  ALONG  THE  ROAD  —  II       ....  24 
V.    THE  OPEN  FIELDS 33 

VI.    EARTH  AND  SKY 41 

VII.  THE  MYSTERY  OF  NIGHT  ....  50 

VIII.    OFF  SHORE 59 

IX.  A  MOUNTAIN  RIVULET       ....  67 

X.  THE  EARLIEST  INSIGHTS       ....  74 

XI.  THE  HEART  OF  THE  WOODS    ...  84 

XII.    BESIDE  THE  RIVER 96 

XIII.  AT  THE  SPRING 103 

XIV.  ON  THE  HEIGHTS no 

XV.    UNDER  COLLEGE  ELMS 119 

XVI.    A  SUMMER  MORNING 128 


Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVII.    A  SUMMER  NOON  .     .     .     .     .     .  136 

XVIII.    EVENTIDE 143 

XIX.    THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE      ...  150 

XX.    A  MEMORY  OF  SUMMER  ....  156 

XXI.    IN  THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN,  I-XI    .  167 

XXII.    AN  UNDISCOVERED  ISLAND,  I- VI     .  255 


VIM 


Under  the  Trees  and 
Elsewhere 

Chapter  I 

An  April  Day 

MY  study  has  been  a  dull  place  of 
late  ;  even  the  open  fire,  which 
still  lingers  on  the  hearth,  has  failed  to 
exorcise  a  certain  gray  and  weary  spirit 
which  has  somehow  taken  possession  of 
the  premises.  As  I  was  thinking  this 
morning  about  the  best  way  of  ejecting 
this  unwelcome  inmate,  it  suddenly  oc- 
curred to  me  that  for  some  time  past  my 
study  has  been  simply  a  workshop ;  the 
fire  has  been  lighted  early  and  burned 
late,  the  windows  have  been  closed  to 
keep  out  all  disturbing  sounds,  and 
the  pile  of  manuscript  on  the  table 
has  steadily  grown  higher  and  higher. 
"  After  all,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  it  is  I 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

that  ought  to  be  ejected."  Acting  on 
this  conclusion,  and  without  waiting  for 
the  service  of  process  of  formal  dislodg- 
ment,  I  have  let  the  fire  go  out,  opened 
the  windows,  locked  the  door,  and  put 
myself  into  the  hands  of  my  old  friend, 
Nature,  for  refreshment  and  society.  I 
find  that  I  have  come  a  little  prema- 
turely, although  my  welcome  has  been 
even  warmer  than  it  would  have  been 
later. 

"  This  is  what  I  like,"  my  old  friend 
seemed  to  say.  "You  have  not  waited 
until  I  have  set  my  house  in  order  and 
embellished  my  grounds.  You  have 
come  because  you  love  me  even  more 
than  my  surroundings.  I  have  a  good 
many  friends  who  know  me  only  from 
May  to  October :  the  rest  of  the  year 
they  give  me  cold  glances  of  surprised 
recognition,  or  they  pass  me  by  without 
so  much  as  a  look.  Their  ardent  devo- 
tion in  summer  fills  me  with  a  deep  dis- 
dain ;  their  admiration  for  great  masses 
of  colour,  for  high,  striking  effects,  and 


An  April  Day 

for  the  general  lavish  ness  and  prodigality 
of  my  passing  mood,  betrays  their  lack 
of  discernment,  their  defect  of  taste,  and 
their  slight  acquaintance  with  myself.  I 
should  much  prefer  that  they  would 
leave  my  woods  and  fields  untrodden, 
and  not  disturb  my  mountain  solitudes 
with  their  ignorant  and  vulgar  raptures. 
The  people  who  really  know  me  and 
love  me  seek  me  oftener  at  other  seasons, 
when  I  am  more  at  leisure,  and  can  bid 
them  to  a  more  intimate  companionship. 
They  come  to  understand  my  finer 
moods  and  deeper  secrets  of  beauty  ;  the 
elusive  loveliness  which  I  leave  behind 
me  to  lure  on  my  true  friends  through 
the  late  autumn,  they  find  and  follow 
with  the  eye  and  heart  of  love ;  the  rare 
and  splendid  aspects  in  which  I  often 
discover  my  presence  in  midwinter  they 
enjoy  all  the  more  because  I  have  with- 
drawn myself  from  the  gaze  of  the  crowd ; 
and  the  first  faint  touches  of  colour  and 
soft  breathings  of  life,  which  announce 
my  return  in  the  early  spring,  they  greet 
3 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

with  the  deep  joy  of  true  lovers.  Those 
only  who  discern  the  beauty  of  branches 
from  which  I  have  stripped  the  leaves  to 
uncover  their  exquisite  outline  and  sym- 
metry, who  can  look  over  bare  fields  and 
into  the  faded  copse  and  find  there  the 
elusive  beauty  which  hides  in  soft  tones 
and  low  colours,  are  my  true  friends ;  all 
others  are  either  pretenders  or  distant 
acquaintances." 

I  was  not  at  all  surprised  to  hear  my 
old  friend  express  sentiments  so  utterly 
at  variance  with  those  held  by  many 
people  who  lay  claim  to  her  friendship ; 
in  fact,  they  are  sentiments  which  I  find 
every  year  becoming  more  and  more  my 
own  convictions.  In  every  gallery  of 
paintings  you  will  find  the  untrained 
about  the  pictures  on  which  the  artist 
has  lavished  the  highest  colours  from  his 
palette  ;  those  whose  taste  for  art  has  had 
direction  and  culture  will  look  for  very 
different  effects  in  the  works  which  at- 
tract them.  It  is  among  the  rich  and 
varied  low  colours  of  this  season,  in  wood 
4 


An  April  Day 

and  field,  that  a  true  lover  of  nature 
detects  some  of  her  rarest  touches  of 
loveliness ;  the  low  western  sun,  falling 
athwart  the  bare  boughs  and  striking  a 
kind  of  subdued  bloom  into  the  brown 
hill-tops  and  across  the  furze  and  heather, 
sometimes  reveals  a  hidden  charm  in  the 
landscape  which  one  seeks  in  vain  when 
skies  are  softer  and  the  green  roof  has 
been  stretched  over  the  woodland  ways. 
In  fact,  one  can  hardly  lay  claim  to  any 
intimacy  with  Nature  until  he  loves  her 
best  when  she  discards  her  royalty,  and, 
like  Cinderella,  clad  only  in  the  cast-off 
garments  of  sunnier  days,  she  crouches 
before  the  ashes  of  the  faded  year.  The 
test  of  friendship  is  its  fidelity  when 
every  charm  of  fortune  and  environment 
has  been  swept  away,  and  the  bare,  un- 
draped  character  alone  remains ;  if  love 
still  holds  steadfast,  and  the  joy  of  com- 
panionship survives  in  such  an  hour,  the 
fellowship  becomes  a  beautiful  prophecy 
of  immortality.  To  all  professions  of 
love  Nature  applies  this  infallible  test 
5 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

with  a  kind  of  divine  impartiality.  With 
the  first  note  of  the  bluebird,  under  the 
brief  flush  of  an  April  sky,  her  alluring 
invitation  goes  forth  to  the  world  ;  day 
by  day  she  deepens  the  blue  of  her  sum- 
mer skies  and  fills  them  with  those  buoy- 
ant clouds  that  float  like  dreams  across 
the  vision  of  the  waking  day  ;  night  after 
night  she  touches  the  stars  with  a  softer 
radiance,  and  breathes  upon  her  roses  so 
that  they  are  eager  for  the  dawn,  that 
they  may  lay  their  hearts  open  to  her 
gaze  ;  the  forests  take  on  more  and  more 
the  lavish  mood  of  the  summer,  until 
they  have  buried  their  great  trunks  in 
perpetual  shade.  The  splendid  pageant 
moves  on,  gathering  its  votaries  as  it 
passes  from  one  marvellous  change  to 
another ;  and  yet  the  Mistress  of  the 
Revels  is  nowhere  visible.  The  crowds 
press  from  point  to  point,  peering  into 
the  depths  of  the  woods  and  watching 
stealthily  where  the  torrent  breaks  from 
its  dungeon  in  the  hills,  and  leaps,  mad 
with  joy,  in  the  new-found  liberty  of 
6 


An  April  Day 

light  and  motion  ;  but  not  a  flutter  of 
her  garment  betrays  to  the  keenest  eye 
the  Presence  which  is  the  soul  of  all  this 
visible,  moving  scene. 

And  now  there  is  a  subtle  change  in 
the  air ;  premonitions  of  death  begin  to 
thrust  themselves  in  the  midst  of  the 
revelry ;  there  is  a  brief  hush,  a  sudden 
glow  of  splendour,  and  lo  !  the  pageant 
is  seemingly  at  an  end.  The  crowd  linger 
a  little,  gather  a  few  faded  leaves,  and  de- 
part; a  few  —  a  very  few  —  wait.  Now 
that  the  throngs  have  vanished  and  the 
revelry  is  over,  they  are  conscious  of  a 
deep,  pervading  quietude  ;  these  are  days 
when  something  touches  them  with  a 
sense  of  near  and  sacred  fellowship ; 
Nature  has  cast  aside  her  gifts,  and  given 
herself.  For  there  is  a  something  behind 
the  glory  of  summer,  and  they  only  have 
entered  into  real  communion  with  Nature 
who  have  learned  to  separate  her  from 
all  her  miracles  of  power  and  beauty ; 
who  have  come  to  understand  that  she 
lives  apart  from  the  singing  of  birds,  the 
7 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

blossoming  of  flowers,  and  the  waving  of 
branches  heavy  with  leaves. 

The  Greeks  saw  some  things  clearly 
without  seeing  them  deeply ;  they  inter- 
preted through  a  beautiful  mythology  all 
the  external  phenomena  of  Nature.  The 
people  of  the  farther  East,  on  the  other 
hand,  saw  more  obscurely,  but  far  more 
deeply;  they  looked  less  at  the  visible 
things  which  Nature  held  out  to  them, 
and  more  into  the  mysteries  of  her  hidden 
processes,  her  silent  but  universal  muta- 
tions ;  the  subtle  vanishings  and  reap- 
pearings  of  her  presence ;  they  seemed 
to  hear  the  mighty  loom  on  which  the 
seasons  are  woven,  to  feel  through  some 
primitive  but  forgotten  kinship  the  throes 
of  the  birth-hour,  the  vigils  of  suffering, 
and  the  agonies  of  death.  Was  there  not 
in  such  an  attitude  toward  Nature  a  hint 
of  the  only  real  fellowship  with  her? 


Chapter  II 

% 

Under  the  Apple  Boughs 

FOR  weeks  past  I  have  been  conscious 
of  some  mystery  in  the  air  ;  there 
have  been  fleeting  signs  of  secret  com- 
munication between  earth  and  sky,  as  if 
the  hidden  powers  were  in  friendly  league 
and  some  great  concerted  movement  were 
on  foot.  There  have  been  soft  lights 
playing  upon  the  tender  grass  on  the 
lawn,  and  caressing  those  delicate  hues 
through  which  each  individual  tree  and 
shrub  searches  for  its  summer  foliage ; 
the  mornings  have  slipped  so  quietly  in 
through  the  eastern  gates,  and  the  after- 
noons have  vanished  so  softly  across  the 
western  hills,  that  one  could  not  but  sus- 
pect a  plot  to  avert  attention  and  lull 
watchful  eyes  into  negligence  while  all 
things  were  made  ready  for  the  moment 
of  revelation.  At  times  a  subdued  light 
9 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

has  filled  the  broad  arch  of  heaven,  and, 
later,  a  fringe  of  rain  has  moved  gently 
across  the  low  hills  and  fallow  fields,  rip- 
pling like  a  wave  from  that  upper  sea 
which  hangs  invisible  in  golden  weather, 
but  becomes  portentous  and  vast  as  the 
nether  seas  when  the  clouds  gather  and 
the  celestial  watercourses  are  unlocked. 
One  day  I  thought  I  saw  signs  of  a  fall- 
ing out  between  the  conspirators,  and  I 
set  myself  to  watch  for  some  disclosure 
which  might  escape  from  one  side  or  the 
other  in  the  frankness  of  anger.  The 
earth  was  sullen  and  overcast,  the  sky 
dark  and  forbidding,  the  clouds  rolled 
together  and  grew  black,  and  the  shadows 
deepened  upon  the  grass.  At  last  there 
was  a  vivid  flash  of  lightning,  a  crash  of 
thunder,  and  the  sudden  roar  of  rain. 
"  Now,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  I  shall  learn 
what  all  this  secrecy  has  been  about." 
But  I  was  doomed  to  disappointment; 
after  a  few  minutes  of  angry  expostulation 
the  sky  suddenly  uncovered  itself,  the 
clouds  piled  themselves  against  the  hori- 

10 


Under  the  Apple  Boughs 

zon  and  disclosed  their  silver  linings,  and 
over  the  whole  earth  there  spread  a  broad 
smile,  as  if  the  hypocritical  performance 
had  been  part  of  the  original  deception. 
I  am  confident  now  that  it  was,  for  that 
brief  drenching  of  trees  and  sward  was 
almost  the  last  noticeable  preparation 
before  the  curtain  rose.  The  next  day 
there  was  a  deep,  unbroken  quiet  across 
our  piece  of  world,  as  if  a  fragment  of 
eternity  had  been  quietly  slipped  into  the 
place  of  one  of  our  brief,  noisy  days. 
The  trees  stood  motionless,  as  if  awaiting 
some  signal,  and  I  listened  in  vain  for 
that  inarticulate  and  half-heard  murmur 
of  coming  life  which,  day  and  night,  had 
filled  my  thoughts  these  past  weeks,  and 
set  the  march  of  the  hours  to  a  sublime 
rhythm. 

The  next  morning  a  faint  perfume 
stole  into  my  room.  I  rose  hastily,  ran 
to  the  window,  and  lo  !  the  secret  was 
out :  the  apple  trees  were  in  bloom ! 
Three  days  later,  and  the  miracle  so  long 
in  preparation  was  accomplished ;  the 


y Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

slowly  rising  tide  of  life  had  broken  into 
a  foam  of  blossoms  and  buried  the  world 
in  a  billowy  sea.  There  will  come  days 
of  greater  splendour  than  this,  days  of 
deeper  foliage,  of  waving  grain  and  ripen- 
ing fruit,  but  no  later  day  will  eclipse  this 
vision  of  paradise  which  lies  outspread 
from  my  window ;  life  touches  to-day  the 
zenith  of  its  earliest  and  freshest  bloom ; 
to-morrow  the  blossoms  will  begin  to  sift 
down  from  the  snowy  branches,  and  the 
great  movement  of  summer  will  advance 
again ;  but  for  one  brief  day  the  year 
pauses  and  waits,  reluctant  to  break  the 
spell  of  this  perfect  hour,  to  mar  by  the 
stir  of  a  single  leaf  the  stainless  loveliness 
of  this  revelation  of  nature's  unwasted 
youth. 

I  do  not  care  to  look  through  these 
great  masses  of  bloom ;  it  is  enough 
simply  to  live  in  an  hour  which  brings 
such  an  overflow  of  beauty  from  the 
ancient  fountains ;  but  Nature  herself 
lures  one  to  deeper  thoughts,  and, 
through  the  vision  which  spreads  like 

12 


Under  the  Apple  Boughs 

a  mirage  over  the  landscape,  hints  at 
some  hidden  loveliness  at  the  root  of 
this  riotous  blossoming,  some  diviner 
vision  for  the  eye  of  the  spirit  alone. 
"  Look,"  she  seems  to  say,  as  I  stand 
and  gaze  with  unappeased  hunger  of 
soul,  "this  is  my  holiday.  In  the 
coming  weeks  I  have  a  whole  race  to 
feed,  and  over  the  length  of  the  world 
men  are  imploring  my  help.  They  do 
their  little  share  of  work,  and  while  they 
wait,  waking  and  sleeping,  anxiously 
watching  winds  and  clouds,  I  vitalise 
their  toil  and  turn  all  my  forces  to  their 
bidding.  The  labour  of  the  year  is  at 
hand  and  on  its  threshold  I  take  this 
holiday.  To-day  I  give  you  a  glimpse 
of  paradise ;  a  garden  in  which  all  man- 
ner of  loveliness  blooms  simply  from 
the  overflow  of  life,  without  thought, 
or  care,  or  toil.  This  was  my  life  be- 
fore men  came  with  their  cries  of  hunger 
and  nakedness ;  this  shall  be  my  life 
again  when  they  have  passed  beyond. 
This  which  lies  before  you  like  a  dream 
13 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

is  a  glimpse  of  life  as  it  is  in  me,  and 
shall  be  in  you ;  immortal,  inexhaust- 
ible fulness  of  power  and  beauty,  over- 
flowing in  frolic  loveliness.  This  shall 
be  to  you  a  day  out  of  eternity,  a  mo- 
ment out  of  the  immortal  youth  to  which 
all  true  life  comes  at  last,  and  in  which 
it  abides." 

I  cannot  say  that  I  heard  these  words, 
and  yet  they  were  as  real  to  me  as  if 
they  had  been  audible ;  in  all  fellowship 
with  Nature  silence  is  deeper  and  more 
real  than  speech.  As  I  stood  meditat- 
ing on  these  deep  things  that  lie  at  the 
bottom  of  this  sea  of  bloom,  I  under- 
stood why  men  in  all  ages  have  con- 
nected the  flowering  of  the  apple  with 
their  dreams  of  paradise ;  I  saw  at  a 
glance  the  immortal  symbolism  of  these 
blossoming  fields  and  hillsides.  I  did 
not  need  to  lift  my  eyes  to  look  upon 
that  garden  of  Hesperides,  lying  like  a 
dream  of  heaven  under  the  golden  west- 
ern skies,  whence  Heracles  brought  back 
the  fruit  of  Juno ;  1  asked  no  aid  of 


Under  the  Apple  Boughs 

Milton's  imagination  to  see  the  mighty 
hero  in 

.    .   .   the  gardens  fair 

Of  Hesperus  and  his  daughters  three, 

That  sing  about  the  golden  tree; 

and  as  I  gazed,  the  vision  of  that  other 
and  nobler  hero  came  before  me,  whose 
purity  is  more  to  us  than  his  prowess, 
and  who  waits  in  Avilion,  the  "  Isle  of 
Apples,"  for  the  call  that  shall  summon 
him  back  from  Paradise. 

I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  seest  —  if  indeed  I  go 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt)  — 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  even  wind  blows  loudly;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadow'd,  happy,  fair  with  orchard  lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crown' d  with  summer  sea, 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound. 


Chapter  III 

Along  the  Road 
I 

SINCE  I  turned  the  key  on  my  study 
I  have  almost  forgotten  the  familiar 
titles  on  which  my  eye  rested  whenever 
I  took  a  survey  of  my  book-shelves. 
Those  friends  stanch  and  true,  with 
whom  I  have  held  such  royal  fellow- 
ship when  skies  were  chill  and  winds 
were  cold,  will  not  forget  me,  nor  shall 
I  become  unfaithful  to  them.  I  have 
gone  abroad  that  I  may  return  later  with 
renewed  zest  and  deeper  insight  to  my 
old  companionships.  Books  and  nature 
are  never  inimical ;  they  mutually  speak 
for  and  interpret  each  other;  and  only 
he  who  stands  where  their  double  light 
falls  sees  things  in  true  perspective  and 
in  right  relations. 

.16 


Along  the  Road 

The  road  along  whose  winding  course 
I  have  been  making  a  delightful  pilgrim- 
age to-day  has  the  double  charm  of  nat- 
ural  beauty  and  of  human  association ; 
it  is  old,  as  age  is  reckoned  in  this  new 
world ;  it  has  grown  hard  under  the 
tread  of  sleeping  generations,  and  the 
great  figures  of  history  have  passed 
over  it  in  their  journeys  between  the 
two  great  cities  which  mark  its  limits. 
In  the  earlier  days  it  was  the  king's 
highway,  and  along  its  up-hill  and 
down-dale  course  the  battalions  of 
royal  troops  marched  and  counter- 
marched to  the  call  of  bugles  that 
have  gone  silent  these  hundred  years 
and  more.  It  is  a  road  of  varied  for- 
tunes, like  many  of  those  who  have 
passed  over  it;  it  is  sometimes  rich  in 
all  manner  of  priceless  possessions,  and 
again  it  is  barren,  poverty-stricken,  and 
desolate.  It  climbs  long  hills,  some- 
times in  a  roundabout,  hesitating,  half- 
hearted way,  and  sometimes  with  an 
abrupt  and  breathless  ascent ;  at  the 
2  '7 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

summit  it  seems  to  pause  a  moment  as 
if  to  invite  the  traveller  to  survey  the 
splendid  domain  which  it  commands. 
On  one  side,  in  such  a  restful  moment, 
one  sees  the  wide  circle  of  waters,  stretch- 
ing far  off  to  a  horizon  which  rests  on 
clusters  of  islands  and  marks  the  limits  of 
the  world  ;  in  the  foreground,  and  sweep- 
ing around  the  other  points  of  the  com- 
pass, a  landscape  rich  in  foliage,  full  of 
gentle  undulations,  and  dotted  here  and 
there  with  fallow  fields,  spreads  itself  like 
another  sea  that  has  been  hushed  into 
sudden  immutability,  and  then  sown, 
every  wave  and  swell  of  it,  with  the 
seeds  of  exhaustless  fertility. 

From  such  points  of  eminence  as 
these  the  road  sometimes  runs  with  hur- 
ried descent,  as  if  longing  for  solitude, 
into  the  heart  of  the  woodlands,  and 
there  winds  slowly  and  solemnly  under 
the  overshadowing  branches  ;  there  are 
no  fences  here,  and  the  sharp  lines  of 
separation  between  road-bed  and  forest 
were  long  ago  erased  in  that  quiet  usur- 
18 


Along  the  Road 

pation  of  man's  work,  which  Nature 
never  fails  to  make  the  moment  she  is 
left  to  herself.  The  ancient  spell  of  the 
woods  is  unbroken  in  this  leafy  solitude, 
and  no  traveller  in  whom  imagination 
survives  can  hope  to  escape  it.  The 
deep  breathings  of  primeval  life  are 
almost  audible,  and  one  feels  in  a  quick 
and  subtle  perception  the  long  past 
which  unites  him  with  the  earliest  gen- 
erations and  the  most  remote  ages. 

Passing  out  from  this  brief  worship 
under  the  arches  of  the  most  venera- 
ble roof  in  Christendom,  the  road  takes 
on  a  frolic  mood  and  courts  the  open 
meadows  and  the  flooding  sunshine ; 
green,  sweet,  and  strewn  with  wild 
flowers,  the  open  fields  call  one  from 
either  side,  and  arrest  one's  feet  at  every 
turn  with  solicitations  to  freedom  and 
joyousness.  The  white  clouds  in  the 
blue  sky  and  the  long  sweep  of  these 
radiant  meadows  conspire  together  to 
persuade  one  that  time  has  strayed  back 
to  its  happy  childhood  again,  and  that 
19 


nothing  remains  of  the  old  activities  but 
play  in  these  immortal  fields.  Here 
the  carpet  is  spread  over  which  one  runs 
with  childish  heedlessness,  courting  the 
disaster  which  brings  him  back  to  the 
breast  of  the  old  mother,  and  makes  him 
feel  once  more  the  warmth  and  sweetness 
out  of  which  all  strength  and  beauty 
spring.  A  little  brook  crosses  the  road 
under  a  rattling  bridge,  and  wanders  on 
across  the  fields,  limpid  and  rippling, 
running  its  little  strain  of  music  through 
the  silence  of  the  meadows.  Its  voice 
is  the  only  sound  which  breaks  the  still- 
ness, and  that  itself  seems  part  of  the 
solitude.  By  day  the  clouds  marshal 
their  shadows  on  it,  and  when  night 
comes  the  heavens  sow  it  with  stars, 
until  it  flows  like  a  dissolving  belt  of 
sky  through  the  fragrant  darkness. 
Sometimes,  as  I  have  come  this  way 
after  nightfall,  I  have  heard  its  call  across 
the  invisible  fields,  and  in  the  sound  I 
have  heard  I  know  not  what  of  deep 
and  joyous  mystery ;  the  long-past  and 

20 


Along  the  Road 

the  far-off  future  whispering  together, 
under  cover  of  the  night,  of  those  things 
which  the  stars  remember  from  their 
youth,  and  to  which  they  look  for- 
ward in  some  remote  cycle  of  their 
shining. 

Past  old  and  well-worked  farms,  into 
which  the  toil  and  thrift  of  generations 
have  gone,  the  old  road  leads  me,  and 
brings  my  thoughts  back  from  elemental 
forces  and  primeval  ages  to  these  later 
centuries  in  which  human  life  has  overlaid 
these  hills  and  vales  with  rich  memories. 
Wherever  man  goes  Nature  makes  room 
for  him,  as  if  prepared  for  his  coming, 
and  ready  to  put  her  mighty  shoulder 
to  the  wheel  of  his  prosperity.  The  old 
fences,  often  decayed  and  fallen,  are  not 
spurned  ;  the  movement  of  universal  life 
does  not  flow  past  them  and  leave  them 
to  rot  in  their  ugliness ;  year  by  year 
time  stains  them  into  harmony  with  the 
rocks,  and  every  summer  a  wave  out  of 
the  great  sea  of  life  flings  itself  over 
them,  and  leaves  behind  some  slight  and 

21 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

seemly  garniture  of  moss  and  vine.  The 
old  farm-houses  have  grown  into  the 
landscape,  and  the  hurrying  road  widens 
its  course,  and  sometimes  makes  a  long 
detour,  that  it  may  unite  these  outlying 
folk  with  the  great  world.  There  stands 
the  old  school-house,  sacred  to  every 
traveller  who  has  learned  that  childhood 
is  both  a  memory  and  a  prophecy  of 
heaven.  One  pauses  here,  and  hears, 
in  the  unbroken  stillness,  the  rush  of 
feet  that  have  never  grown  weary  with 
travel,  and  the  clamour  of  voices  through 
which  immortal  youth  still  shouts  to  the 
kindred  hills  and  skies.  Into  those  win- 
dows Nature  throws  all  manner  of  invita- 
tions, and  through  them  she  gets  only 
glances  of  recognition  and  longing. 
There  are  the  fields,  the  woods,  and  the 
hills  in  one  perpetual  rivalry  of  charm  ; 
the  bird  sings  in  the  bough  over  the  win- 
dow, and  on  still  afternoons  the  brook 
calls  and  calls  again.  Here  one  feels 
anew  the  eternal  friendship  between 
childhood  and  Nature,  and  remembers 

22 


Along  the  Road 

that  they  only  can  abide  in  that  fel- 
lowship who  carry  into  riper  years  the 
self-forgetfulness,  the  sweet  unconscious- 
ness, the  open  mind  and  heart  of  a 
child. 


Chapter  IV 

Along  the  Road 
II 

I  HAVE  found  that  walking  stimulates 
observation  and  opens  one's  eyes  to 
movements  and  appearances  in  earth  and 
sky,  which  ordinarily  escape  attention. 
The  constant  change  of  landscape  which 
attends  even  the  slow  progress  of  a  loi- 
tering gait  puts  one  on  the  alert  for  dis- 
coveries of  all  kinds,  and  prompts  one 
to  suspect  every  leafy  covert  and  to  peer 
into  every  wooded  recess  with  the  expec- 
tation of  surprising  Nature  as  Actaeon 
surprised  Diana  —  in  the  moment  of  un- 
covered loveliness.  On  the  other  hand, 
when  one  lounges  by  the  hour  in  the 
depths  of  the  forest,  or  sits,  book  in 
hand,  under  the  knotted  and  familiar 
apple  tree,  on  a  summer  afternoon,  the 
faculty  of  observation  is  lulled  into  a 
24 


Along  the  Road 

dreamless  sleep;  one  ceases  to  be  far 
enough  away  from  Nature  to  observe 
her ;  one  becomes  part  of  the  great,  silent 
movements  in  the  midst  of  which  he  sits, 
mute  and  motionless,  while  the  hours 
slip  by  with  the  peace  of  eternity  already 
upon  them. 

When  I  reached  the  end  of  my  walk, 
and  paused  for  a  moment  before  retracing 
my  steps,  I  was  conscious  of  the  inex- 
haustible richness  of  the  world  through 
which  I  had  come ;  /a  thousand  voices 
had  spoken  to  me,  and  a  thousand  sights 
of  wonder  moved  before  me ;  I  was 
awake  to  the  universe  which  most  of  us 
see  only  in  broken  and  unintelligent 
dreams.  /Through  all  this  realm  of  truth 
and  poetry  men  have  passed  and  repassed 
these  many  years,  I  said  to  myself;  and 
I  began  to  wonder  how  many  of  those 
now  long  asleep  really  saw  or  heard  this 
great  glad  world  of  sun  and  summer  !  I 
began  slowly  to  retrace  my  steps,  and  as  I 
reached  the  summit  of  the  hill  and  looked 
beyond  I  saw  the  cattle  standing  knee- 
25 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

deep  in  the  brook  that  loiters  across  the 
fields,  and  I  heard  the  faint  bleating  of 
sheep  borne  from  a  distant  pasturage. 
/  These  familiar  sights  and  sounds 
touched  me  with  a  sudden  pathos ;  there 
is  nothing  in  human  associations  so  ven- 
erable, so  familiar,  as  the  lowing  of  the 
home-coming  kine  and  the  bleating  of 
the  flocks.  They  carry  one  back  to  the 
first  homes  and  the  most  ancient  families. 
Older  than  history,  more  ancient  than 
civilisation,  are  these  familiar  tones  which 
unite  the  low-lying  meadows  and  the  up- 
land pastures  with  the  fire  on  the  hearth- 
stone and  the  nightly  care  of  the  fold. 
When  the  shadows  deepen  over  the 
country-side,  the  oldest  memories  are 
revived  and  the  oldest  habits  recalled  by 
the  scenes  about  the  farm-house.  The 
same  offices  fall  to  the  husbandman, 
the  same  sights  reveal  themselves  to  the 
housewife,  the  same  sounds,  mellow  with 
the  resonance  of  uncounted  centuries, 
greet  the  ears  of  the  children  as  in  the 
most  primitive  ages.  ^ 
26 


Along  the  Road 

The  highway  itself  stands  as  a  memo- 
rial of  the  most  venerable  customs  and 
the  most  ancient  races.  As  I  lift  my 
eyes  from  its  beaten  road-bed,  and  look 
out  upon  it  through  the  imagination,  it 
escapes  all  later  boundaries  and  runs  back 
through  history  to  the  very  dawn  of  civ- 
ilisation ;  it  marks  the  earliest  contact  of 
men  with  a  world  which  was  wrapped  in 
mystery.  The  hour  that  saw  a  second 
home  built  by  human  hands  heard  the 
first  footfall  on  the  first  highway.  That 
narrow  foot-path  led  to  civilisation,  and 
has  broadened  into  the  highway  because 
human  fellowships  and  needs  have  mul- 
tiplied and  directed  the  countless  feet 
that  have  beaten  it  into  permanency. 
Every  new  highway  has  been  a  new 
bond  between  Nature  and  men,  a  new 
evidence  of  that  indissoluble  fellowship 
into  which  they  are  forever  united. 

I    have  sometimes  tried   to    recall  in 

imagination  the  world  of  Nature  before 

a  human  voice    had    broken  the  silence 

or  a  human  foot  left  its  impress  on  the 

27 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

soil ;  out  when  I  remember  that  what  I 
see  in  this  sweep  of  force  and  beauty  is 
largely  what  I  myself  put  into  the  vision, 
that  Nature  without  the  human  ear  is 
soundless,  and  without  the  human  eye 
colourless,  I  understand  that  what  lies 
spread  before  me  never  was  until  a  hu- 
man soul  confronted  it  and  became  its 
interpreter.  This  radiant  world  upon 
which  I  look  was  without  form  and  void 
until  the  earliest  man  brought  to  the 
vision  of  it  that  creative  power  within 
himself  which  touched  it  with  form  and 
colour  and  relations  not  its  own.  Nature 
is  as  incomplete  and  helpless  without 
man  as  man  would  be  without  Nature. 
He  brought  her  varied  and  inexhaustible 
beauty,  and  clothed  her  with  a  garment 
woven  on  we  know  not  what  looms  of 
divine  energy ;  and  she  fed,  sheltered, 
and  strengthened  him  for  the  life  which 
lay  before  him.  Together  they  have 
wrought  from  the  first  hour,  and  civili- 
sation, with  all  the  circle  of  its  arts,  is 
their  joint  handiwork. 
28 


Along  the  Road 

In  the  atmosphere  of  our  rich  modern 
fellowship  with  Nature,  the  unwritten 
poetry  to  which  every  open  heart  falls 
heir,  we  forget  our  earliest  dependence 
V>n  the  great  mother  and  the  lessons  she 
taught  when  men  gathered  about  her 
knee  in  the  childhood  of  the  worjd. 
Not  a  spade  turned  the  soil,  not  an 
axe  felled  a  tree,  not  a  path  was  made 
through  the  forest,  that  did  not  leave, 
in  the  man  whose  arm  put  forth  the 
toil,  some  moral  quality.  In  the  obsta- 
cles which  she  placed  in  their  pathway, 
in  the  difficulties  with  which  she  sur- 
rounded their  life,  the  wise  mother 
taught  her  children  all  the  lessons  which 
were  to  make  them  great.  It  was  no 
easy  familiarity  which  she  offered  them, 
no  careless  bestowal  of  bounty  upon  de- 
pendents ;  she  met  them  as  men,  and 
offered  them  a  perpetual  alliance  upon 
such  terms  as  great  and  equal  sovereigns 
proffer  and  accept.  She  gave  much,  but 
she  asked  even  more  than  she  offered, 
and  in  the  first  moment  of  intercourse 
29 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

she  struck  in  men  that  lofty  note  of  sov- 
ereignty which  has  never  ceased  to  thrill 
the  race  with  mysterious  tones  of  power 
and  prophecy.  Men  have  stood  erect 
and  fearless  in  the  presence  of  the  most 
awful  revelations  of  the  forces  of  Nature, 
affirming  by  their  very  attitude  a  suprem- 
acy of  spirit  which  no  preponderance  of 
power  can  overshadow.  Face  to  face 
through  all  his  history  man  has  stood 
with  Nature,  and  to  each  generation  she 
has  opened  some  new  page  of  her  inex- 
haustible story.  Beginning  in  the  hard- 
est toil  for  the  most  material  rewards, 
this  fellowship  has  steadily  added  one 
province  of  knowledge  and  intimacy  after 
another,  until  it  has  become  inclusive  of 
the  most  delicate  and  hidden  recesses  of 
character  as  well  as  those  which  are  obvi- 
ous and  primary.  In  response  to  spirits 
which  have  continually  come  into  a  closer 
contact  with  her  life,  Nature  has  added 
to  her  gifts  of  food  and  wine,  poetry  and 
art,  far-reaching  sciences,  occult  wisdoms 
and  skills ;  she  has  invited  the  greatest 
30 


Along  the  Road 

to  become  her  ministers,  and  has  rewarded 
their  unselfish  service  by  sharing  with 
them  the  mighty  forces  that  sleep  and 
,  awake  at  her  bidding ;  one  after  another 
the  poets  of  truest  gift  have  forsaken  the 
beaten  paths  of  cities  and  men,  and  found 
along  her  untrodden  ways  the  vision  that 
never  fades ;  her  voice,  now  that  men 
begin  to  understand  it  again  as  their  fore- 
fathers understood  it,  is  a  voice  of  wor- 
ship. So,  from  their  first  work  for  food 
and  shelter,  men  have  steadily  won  from 
Nature  gifts  of  insight  and  knowledge 
and  prophecy,  until  now  the  mightiest 
secrets  are  whispered  by  the  trees  to  him 
who  listens,  and  the  winds  sometimes 
take  up  the  burden  of  prophecy  and  sing 
of  a  fellowship  in  which  all  truth  shall  be 
a  common  possession. 

As  I  walk  along  the  old  highway,  the 
deepening  shadows  touch  the  familiar 
landscape  with  mystery ;  one  landmark 
after  another  vanishes  until  the  lights  in 
the  scattered  farm-houses  gleam  like  re- 
flected constellations.  A  deep  silence 
31 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

fills  the  great  heavens  and  broods  over 
the  wide  earth ;  all  things  have  become 
dim  and  strange ;  and  yet  I  feel  no  lone- 
liness in  the  midst  of  this  star-lit  soli- 
tude. The  heavens  shining  over  me, 
and  the  scattered  household  fires  declare 
to  me  that  fellowship  of  light  in  which 
Nature  holds  out  her  hand  to  man  and 
leads  him,  step  by  step,  to  the  unspeak- 
able splendours  of  her  central  sun. 


Chapter  V 

The  Open  Fields 

ONE  of  the  sights  upon  which  my 
eyes  rest  oftenest  and  with  deep- 
est content  is  a  broad  sweep  of  meadow 
slowly  climbing  the  western  sky  until  it 
pauses  at  the  edge  of  a  noble  piece  of 
woodland.  It  is  a  playground  of  wind 
and  flowers  and  waving  grasses.  There 
are,  indeed,  days  when  it  lies  cold  and 
sad  under  inhospitable  skies,  but  for  the 
most  part  the  heavens  are  in  league  with 
cloud  and  sun  to  protect  its  charm  against 
all  comers.  When  the  turf  is  fresh,  all 
the  promise  of  summer  is  in  its  tender 
geeen ;  a  little  later,  and  it  is  sown  thick 
with  daisies  and  buttercups  ;  and  as  the 
breeze  plays  upon  it  these  frolicsome 
flowers,  which  have  known  no  human 
tending,  seem  to  chase  each  other  in 
endless  races  over  the  whole  expanse. 
3  33 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

I  have  seen  them  run  breathlessly  up 
the  long  slope,  and  then  suddenly  turn 
and  rush  pell-mell  down  again.  If  the 
wind  had  only  stopped  for  a  moment  its 
endless  gossip  with  the  leaves,  I  am  sure 
I  should  have  heard  the  gleeful  shouts, 
the  sportive  cries,  of  these  vagrant  flow- 
ers whose  spell  is  rewoven  over  every 
generation  of  children,  and  whose  un- 
studied beauty  and  joy  recall,  with  every 
summer,  some  of  the  clews  which  most 
of  us  have  lost  in  our  journey  through 
life.  Even  as  I  write,  I  see  the  white 
and  yellow  heads  tossing  to  and  fro  in  a 
mood  of  free  and  buoyant  being,  which 
has  for  me,  face  to  face  with  the  problems 
of  living,  an  unspeakable  pathos. 

What  a  depth  of  tender  colour  fills  the 
arch  of  heaven  as  it  bends  over  this  play- 
ground of  the  blooming  and  beauty-laden 
forces  of  nature  !  The  great  summer 
clouds,  shaping  their  courses  to  invisible 
harbours  across  the  trackless  aerial  sea, 
love  to  drop  anchor  here  and  slowly 
trail  their  mighty  shadows,  vainly  grop- 
34 


The  Open  Fields 

ing  for  something  that  shall  make  them 
fast.  The  winds,  that  have  come  roar- 
ing through  the  woodlands,  subdue  their 
harsh  voices  and  linger  long  in  their  iour- 

CD  J 

ney  across  this  sunny  expanse.  It  is 
true,  they  sing  no  lullabies  as  in  the 
hollow  under  the  hill  where  they  them- 
selves often  fall  asleep,  but  the  music  to 
which  they  move  has  a  magical  cadence 
of  joy  in  it,  and  sets  our  thought  to  the 
dancing  mood  of  the  flowers. 

Sometimes,  on  quiet  afternoons,  when 
the  great  world  of  work  has  somehow 
seemed  to  drop  its  burdens  into  space, 
and  carries  nothing  but  rest  and  quietude 
along  its  journey  under  the  summer  sky, 
I  have  seen  a  pageant  in  the  open  fields 
that  has  made  me  doubt  whether  a  dream 
had  not  taken  me  unawares.  I  have 
seen  the  first  sweet  flowers  of  spring  rise 
softly  out  of  the  grass  where  they  had 
been  hiding  and  call  gently  to  each 
other,  as  if  afraid  that  a  single  loud 
word  would  dissolve  the  charm  of  sun 
and  warm  breeze  for  which  they  had 
35 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

waited  so  long.  After  their  dreamless 
sleep  of  months,  these  beautiful  children 
of  Mother  Earth  seemed  almost  afraid 
to  break  the  stillness  from  which  they 
had  come,  and  strayed  about  noiselessly, 
with  subdued  and  lovely  mien,  exhaling 
a  perfume  as  delicate  as  themselves. 
Then,  with  a  rush  and  shout,  the  sum- 
mer flowers  suddenly  burst  upon  the 
scene,  overflowing  with  life  and  merri- 
ment ;  in  lawless  troops  they  ran  hither 
and  thither,  flinging  echoes  of  their 
laughter  over  the  whole  country-side, 
and  soon  overshadowing  entirely  their 
older  and  more  sensitive  fellows ;  these, 
indeed,  soon  vanish  altogether,  as  if 
lonely  and  out  of  place  under  the 
broad  glare  and  high  colours  of  mid- 
summer. And  now  for  weeks  together 
the  game  went  on  without  pause  or 
break  ;  the  revelry  grew  fast  and  furi- 
ous, until  one  suspected  that  some  night 
the  Bacchic  throng  had  passed  that  way 
and  left  their  mood  of  wild  and  lawless 
frolic  behind. 

36 


The  Open  Fields 

At  last  a  softer  aspect  spread  itself  over 
the  glowing  sky  and  earth.  The  nights 
grew  vocal  with  the  invisible  chorus  of 
insect  life  ;  there  was  a  mellow  splendour 
in  the  moonlight,  which  touched  the 
distant  hills  and  wide-spreading  waters 
with  a  pathetic  prophecy  of  change. 
And  now,  ripe,  serene,  and  rich  with  the 
accumulated  beauty  of  the  summer,  the 
autumn  flowers  appeared.  Their  move- 
ment was  like  the  stately  dances  of  olden 
times ;  youth  and  its  overflow  were  gone 
forever;  but  in  the  hour  of  maturity 
there  remained  a  noble  beauty,  which 
touched  all  imaginations  and  communi- 
cated to  all  visible  things  a  splendour  of 
which  the  most  radiant  hours  of  early 
summer  had  been  only  faintly  prophetic. 
In  the  calm  of  these  golden  days  the 
autumn  flowers  reigned  with  a  more 
than  regal  state,  and  when  the  first  cold 
breath  of  winter  touched  them,  they  fell 
from  their  great  estate  silently  and  royally 
as  if  their  fate  were  matched  to  their  rank. 
And  now  the  fields  were  bare  once  more. 
37 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

From  such  a  dream  as  this  I  often 
awake  joyfully  to  find  the  drama  still  in 
its  first  act,  and  to  feel  still  before  me 
the  ever-deepening  interest  and  ever- 
widening  beauty  of  the  miracle  play  to 
which  Nature  annually  bids  us  welcome. 
Across  this  noble  playground,  with  its 
sweep  of  landscape  and  its  arch  of  sky, 
I  often  wander  with  no  companions  but 
the  flowers,  and  with  no  desire  for  other 
fellowship.  Here,  as  in  more  secluded 
and  quiet  places,  Nature  confides  to 
those  who  love  her  some  deep  and 
precious  truths  never  to  be  put  into 
words,  but  ever  after  to  rise  at  times 
over  the  horizon  of  thought  like  vagrant 
ships  that  come  and  go  against  the  dis- 
tant sea  line,  or  like  clouds  that  pass 
along  the  remotest  circle  of  the  sky  as  it 
sleeps  upon  the  hills.  The  essence  of 
play  is  the  unconscious  overflow  of  life 
that  seeks  escape  in  perfect  self-forget- 
fulness.  There  is  no  effort  in  it,  no 
whip  of  the  will  driving  the  unwilling 
energies  to  an  activity  from  which  they 
38 


The  Open  Fields 

shrink ;  one  plays  as  the  bird  sings  and 
the  brook  runs  and  the  sun  shines  —  not 
with  conscious  purpose,  but  from  the 
simple  overflow.  In  this  sense  Nature 
never  works,  she  is  always  at  play.  In 
perfect  unconsciousness,  without  friction 
or  effort,  her  mightiest  movements  are 
made  and  her  sublimest  tasks  accom- 
plished. Throughout  the  whole  range 
of  her  activity  one  never  comes  upon 
any  trace  of  effort,  any  sign  of  weariness  ; 
one  is  always  impressed — as  Ruskin  said 
long  ago  of  works  of  genius  —  that  he  is 
standing  in  the  presence,  not  of  a  great 
effort,  but  of  a  great  power ;  that  what 
has  been  done  is  only  a  single  manifesta- 
tion of  the  play  of  an  inexhaustible  force. 
There  is  somewhere  in  the  universe  an 
infinite  fountain  of  life  and  beauty  which 
overflows  and  floods  all  worlds  with 
divine  energy  and  loveliness.  When 
the  tide  recedes  it  pauses  but  a  moment, 
and  then  the  music  of  its  returning 
waves  is  heard  along  all  shores,  and  its 
shining  edges  move  irresistibly  on  until 
39 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

they  have  bathed  the  roots  of  the  soli- 
tary flower  on  the  highest  Alp. 

It  is  this  divine  method  of  growth 
which  Nature  opposes  to  our  mecha- 
nisms ;  it  is  this  inexhaustible  life,  over- 
flowing in  unconsciousness  and  boundless 
fulness,  that  she  forever  reveals.  The 
truth  which  underlies  these  two  great 
facts  needs  no  application  to  human  life. 
Blessed,  indeed,  are  they  who  live  in  it, 
and  have  caught  from  it  something  of 
the  joy,  the  health,  and  the  perennial 
beauty  of  Nature. 


40 


Chapter  VI 

Earth  and  Sky 

IN  nature,  as  in  art,  it  is  the  sky  which 
makes  the  landscape.  Given  the 
identical  fields,  woods,  and  retreating 
hills,  and  every  change  of  sky,  every 
modulation  of  light,  will  produce  a  new 
landscape ;  in  light  and  atmosphere  are 
concealed  those  mysteries  of  colour,  of 
distance,  and  of  tone  which  clothe  the 
changeless  features  of  the  visible  world 
with  infinite  variety  and  charm.  This 
fruitful  marriage  of  the  upper  and  the 
lower  firmaments  is  perhaps  the  oldest 
fact  known  to  men ;  it  was  the  earliest 
discovery  of  the  first  observer,  it  still  is 
the  most  illusive  and  beautiful  mystery 
in  nature.  The  most  ancient  mytholo- 
gies began  with  it,  the  latest  books  of 
science  and  natural  observation  are  still 
dealing  with  it.  Myths  that  are  older 
41 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

than  history  portray  it  in  lofty  symbol- 
ism or  in  splendid  histories  that  embody 
the  primitive  ideals  of  divinity  and  hu- 
manity ;  the  latest  poets  and  painters 
would  fain  touch  their  verse  or  their 
canvas  with  some  luminous  gleam  from 
the  heart  of  this  perpetual  miracle. 
The  unbroken  procession  of  the  seasons 
changes  month  by  month  the  relations 
of  earth  and  sky ;  day  and  night  all  the 
water-courses  of  the  world  rise  in  invis- 
ible moisture  to  a  fellowship  with  the 
birds  that  have  passed  on  swift  wing 
above  their  currents ;  the  great  outlying 
seas,  that  sound  the  notes  of  their  vast 
and  passionate  unrest  upon  the  shores 
of  every  continent,  are  continually  drawn 
upward  to  swell  the  invisible  upper  ocean 
which,  out  of  its  mighty  life,  feeds  every 
green  and  fruitful  thing  upon  the  bosom 
of  the  earth.  This  movement  of  the 
oceans  upon  the  continents  through  the 
illimitable  channels  of  the  sky  is,  in  some 
ways,  the  most  mysterious  and  the  most 
sublime  of  those  miracles  which  each 
42 


Earth  and  Sky 

day  testify  to  the  presence  and  majesty 
of  that  Spirit  behind  Nature  of  whom 
the  greatest  of  modern  poets  thought 
when  he  wrote : 

Thus  at  the  roaring  loom  of  time  I  ply 

And  weave  for  God  the  robe  thou  seest  Him  by. 

The  vast  inland  grain  fields,  that 
stretch  in  unbroken  procession  from 
horizon  to  horizon,  have  the  seas  at  their 
roots  not  less  truly  than  the  fertile  soil 
out  of  which  they  spring ;  the  verdure 
upon  the  mountain  ranges,  that  keep 
unbroken  solitude  at  the  heart  of  the 
continents,  speaks  forever  of  the  distant 
oceans  which  nourish  it,  and  spread  it 
like  a  vesture  over  the  barren  heights. 
No  traveller,  deep  in  the  recesses  of  the 
remotest  inland,  ever  passes  beyond 
the  voice  of  that  encircling  ocean  which 
never  died  out  of  the  ears  of  the 
ancient  Ulysses  in  the  first  Odyssey 
of  wandering. 

Two  months  ago  the  apple  trees  were 
white  with  the  foam  of  the  upper  sea ; 
43 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

to-day  the  roses  have  brought  into  my 
little  patch  of  garden  the  hues  with  which 
sun  and  sea  proclaimed  their  everlasting 
marriage  in  the  twilight  of  y ester  even. 
In  the  deep,  passionate  heart  of  these 
splendid  flowers,  fragrant  since  they 
bloomed  in  Sappho's  hand  centuries  ago, 
this  sublime  wedlock  is  annually  cele- 
brated ;  earth  and  sky  meet  and  com- 
mingle in  this  miracle  of  colour  and 
sweetness,  and  when  I  carry  this  lovely 
flower  into  my  study  all  the  poets  fall 
silent ;  here  is  a  depth  of  life,  a  radiant 
outcome  from  the  heart  of  mysteries,  a 
hint  of  unimagined  beauty,  such  as  they 
have  never  brought  to  me  in  all  their 
seeking.  They  have  had  their  visions 
and  made  them  music ;  they  have  caught 
faint  echoes  of  rushing  seas  and  falling 
tides  ;  the  shadows  of  mountains  have 
fallen  upon  them  with  low  whisperings  of 
unspeakable  things  hidden  in  the  unex- 
plored recesses  of  their  solitudes ;  they 
have  searched  the  limitless  arch  of  heaven 
when  it  was  sown  with  stars,  and  glittered 
44 


Earth  and  Sky 

like  "  an  archangel  full  panoplied  against 
a  battle  day  ;  "  but  in  all  their  quest  the 
sublime  unity  of  Nature,  the  fellowship 
of  force  with  force,  of  sea  with  sky,  of 
moisture  with  light,  of  form  with  colour, 
has  found  at  their  hands  no  such  tran- 
scendent demonstration  as  this  fragile 
rose,  which  to-night  brings  from  the 
great  temple  to  this  little  shrine  the  per- 
fume and  the  royalty  of  obedience  to  the 
highest  laws,  and  reverence  for  the  di- 
vinest  mysteries.  Here  sky  and  earth 
and  sea  meet  in  a  union  which  no  science 
can  dissolve,  because  God  has  joined 
them  together.  Could  I  but  penetrate 
the  mystery  which  lies  at  the  heart  of 
this  fragile  flower,  I  should  possess  the 
secret  of  the  universe ;  I  should  under- 
stand the  ancient  miracle  which  has  baffled 
wisdom  from  the  beginning  and  will  not 
discover  itself  to  the  end  of  time. 

If  I    permit  my  thought  to  rest  upon 

this  fragrant  flower,  to  touch  petal  and 

stem  and  root,  and  unite  them  with  the 

vast  world  in  which,  by  a  universal  con- 

45 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

tribution  of  force,  they  have  come  to 
maturity,  I  find  myself  face  to  face  with 
the  oldest  and  the  deepest  questions  men 
have  ever  sought  to  answer.  Elements 
of  earth  and  sea  and  sky  are  blended 
here  in  one  of  those  forms  of  radiant  and 
vanishing  beauty  with  which  the  unseen 
life  of  Nature  crowns  the  years  in  end- 
less and  inexhaustible  profusion.  As  it 
budded  and  opened  into  full  flower  in  the 
garden,  how  complete  it  seemed  in  itself, 
and  how  isolated  from  all  other  visible 
things  !  But  in  reality  how  dependent 
it  was,  how  entirely  the  creation  of  forces 
as  far  apart  as  earth  and  sky  !  The  great 
tide  from  the  Unseen  cast  it  for  a  mo- 
ment into  my  possession ;  for  an  hour  it 
has  filled  a  human  home  with  its  far- 
brought  sweetness  ;  to-morrow  it  will  fall 
apart  and  return  whence  it  came.  As  I 
look  into  its  heart  of  passionate  colour, 
the  whole  visible  universe,  that  seems  so 
fixed  and  stable,  becomes  immaterial, 
evanescent,  vanishing ;  it  is  no  longer  a 
permanent  order  of  seas  and  continents 
46 


Earth  and  Sky 

and  rounded  skies  ;  it  is  a  vision  painted 
by  an  unseen  hand  against  a  background 
of  mystery.  Dead,  cold,  unchangeable 
as  I  see  it  in  the  glimpses  of  a  single 
hour,  it  becomes  warm,  vital,  forever 
changing  as  I  gaze  upon  it  from  the  out- 
look of  the  centuries.  It  is  the  momen- 
tary creation  offerees  that  stream  through 
it  in  endless  ebb  and  flow,  that  are  to-day 
touching  the  sky  with  elusive  splendour, 
and  to-morrow  springing  in  changeful 
loveliness  from  the  depths  of  earth.  The 
continents  are  transformed  into  the  seas 
that  encircle  them  ;  the  seas  rise  into  the 
skies  that  overarch  them  ;  the  skies  min- 
gle with  the  earth,  and  send  back  from 
the  uplifted  faces  of  flowers  greetings  to 
the  stars  they  have  deserted.  Moun- 
tains rise  and  sink  in  the  sublime  rhythm 
to  which  the  movement  of  the  universe 
is  set ;  that  song  without  words  still  au- 
dible in  the  sacred  hour  when  the  morn- 
ing stars  announce  the  day,  and  the  birds 
match  their  tiny  melodies  with  the  uni- 
versal harmony. 

47 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

In  the  unbroken  vision  of  the  centuries 
all  things  are  plastic  and  in  motion  ;  a 
divine  energy  surges  through  all ;  sub- 
stantial for  a  moment  here  as  a  rock, 
fragile  and  vanishing  there  as  a  flower ; 
but  everywhere  the  same,  and  always 
sweeping  onward  through  its  illimitable 
channel  to  its  appointed  end.  It  is  this 
vital  tide  on  which  the  universe  gleams 
and  floats  like  a  mirage  of  immutability  ; 
never  the  same  for  a  single  moment  to 
the  soul  that  contemplates  it :  a  new 
creation  each  hour  and  to  every  eye  that 
rests  upon  it.  No  dead  mechanism  moves 
the  stars,  or  lifts  the  tides,  or  calls  the 
flowers  from  their  sleep  ;  truly  this  is  the 
garment  of  Deity,  and  here  is  the  awful 
splendour  of  the  Perpetual  Presence.  It 
is  the  old  story  of  the  Greek  Proteus 
translated  into  universal  speech.  It  is 
the  song  of  the  Persian  poet : 

The  sullen  mountain,  and  the  bee  that  hums, 
A  flying  joy,  about  its  flowery  base, 

Each  from  the  same  immediate  fountain  comes, 
And  both  compose  one  evanescent  race. 
48 


Earth  and  Sky 


There  is  no  difference  in  the  texture  fine 

That's  woven  through  organic  rock  and  grass, 

And  that  which  thrills  man's  heart  in  every  line, 
As  o'er  its  web  God's  weaving  fingers  pass. 

The  timid  flower  that  decks  the  fragrant  field, 
The  daring  star  that  tints  the  solemn  dome, 

From  one  propulsive  force  to  being  reeled  ; 
Both  keep  one  law  and  have  a  single  home. 


49 


Chapter  VII 

The  Mystery  of  Night 

EVERY  day  two  worlds  lie  at  my 
door  and  invite  me  into  myste- 
ries as  far  apart  as  darkness  and  light. 
These  two  realms  have  nothing  in  com- 
mon save  a  certain  identity  of  form ; 
colour,  relation,  distance,  are  lost  or 
utterly  changed.  In  the  vast  fields  of 
heaven  a  still  more  complete  and  sub- 
lime transformation  is  wrought.  It  is  a 
new  hemisphere  which  hangs  above  me, 
with  countless  fires  lighting  the  awful 
highways  of  the  universe,  and  guiding 
the  daring  and  reverent  thought  as  it 
falters  in  the  highest  empyrean.  The 
mind  that  has  come  into  fellowship  with. 
Nature  is  subtly  moved  and  penetrated 
by  the  decline  of  light  and  the  oncoming 
of  darkness.  As  the  sun  is  replaced  by 
the  stars,  so  is  the  hot,  restless,  eager 
5° 


The  Mystery  of  Night 

spirit  of  the  day  replaced  by  the  infinite 
calm  and  peace  of  the  night.  The 
change  does  not  come  abruptly  or  with 
the  suddenness  of  violent  movement; 
no  dial  is  delicate  enough  to  register  the 
moment  when  day  gives  place  to  night. 
With  that  amplitude  of  power  which 
accompanies  every  movement,  with  that 
sublime  quietude  of  energy  which  per- 
vades every  action,  Nature  calls  the  day 
across  the  hills  and  summons  the  night 
that  has  been  waiting  at  the  eastern 
gates.  No  stir,  no  strife,  no  noise  of 
great  activities,  put  forth  on  a  vast  scale, 
break  the  spell  of  an  hour  which  is  the 
daily  witness  of  a  miracle,  and  waits, 
hushed  and  silent,  in  a  world-wide  wor- 
ship, while  the  altar  fires  blaze  on  the 
western  hills. 

In  that  unspeakable  splendour,  earth 
and  air  and  sea  are  for  the  moment  one, 
and  through  them  all  there  flashes  a 
divine  radiance ;  time  is  not  left  without 
the  witness  of  its  sanctity  as  it  fades  off 
the  dials  of  earth  and  slips  like  a  shin- 
51 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

ing  rivulet  into  the  shoreless  sea  of  light 
beyond.  The  day  that  was  born  with 
seas  and  suns  at  its  cradle  is  followed 
to  its  grave  by  the  long  procession  of 
the  stars.  And  now  that  it  has  gone, 
with  its  numberless  activities,  and  the 
heat  and  stress  of  their  contentions,  how 
gently  and  irresistibly  Nature  summons 
her  children  back  to  herself,  and  touches 
the  brow,  hot  with  the  fever  of  work, 
with  the  hand  of  peace !  An  infinite 
silence  broods  over  the  fields  and  upon 
the  restless  bosom  of  the  sea.  Insensi- 
bly there  steals  into  thought,  spent  and 
weary  with  many  problems,  a  deep  and 
sweet  repose ;  the  soul  does  not  sleep  ; 
it  returns  to  the  ancient  mother,  and  at 
her  breast  feels  the  old  hopes  revived, 
the  old  aspirations  quickened,  the  old 
faiths  relight  their  dying  fires.  The 
fever  of  agonising  struggle  yields  to  the 
calm  of  infinite  trust ;  the  clouds  fall 
apart  and  reveal  the  vision,  that  seemed 
lost,  inviolate  forever;  the  brief,  fierce, 
fruitless  strife  for  self  is  succeeded  by 
52 


The  Mystery  of  Night 

an  unquestioning  trust  in  that  universal 
good,  above  and  beyond  all  thought,  for 
which  the  universe  stands.  Who  shall 
despair  while  the  fields  of  earth  are  sown 
with  flowers  and  the  fields  of  heaven 
blossom  with  stars  ?  The  open  heart 
knows,  in  a  revelation  which  comes  to 
it  with  every  dawn  and  sunset,  that  life 
does  not  mock  its  children  when  it  holds 
this  cup  of  peace  to  their  anguished  lips, 
and  that  into  this  tideless  sea  of  rest  and 
beauty  every  breathless  and  turbulent 
streamlet  flows  at  last. 

In  the  silence  of  night  how  real  and 
divine  the  universe  becomes  !  Doubt 
and  unbelief  retreat  before  the  awful 
voices  that  were  silenced  by  the  din  of 
the  day,  but  now  that  the  little  world  of 
man  is  hushed,  seem  to  have  blended 
all  sounds  into  themselves.  Beyond  the 
circle  of  trees,  through  which  a  broken 
vision  of  stars  comes  and  goes  with  the 
evening  wind,  the  broad  earth  lies  hushed 
and  hidden.  Along  the  familiar  road  a 
new  and  mysterious  charm  is  spread  like 
53 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

a  net  that  entangles  the  feet  of  every 
traveller  and  keeps  him  loitering  on 
where  he  would  have  passed  in  unob- 
servant haste  by  day.  The  great  elms 
murmur  in  low,  inarticulate  tones,  and 
the  shadows  at  their  feet  hide  them- 
selves from  the  moon,  moving  noiselessly 
through  all  the  summer  night.  The 
woods  in  the  distance  stand  motionless 
in  the  wealth  of  their  massed  foliage, 
keeping  guard  over  the  unbroken  silence 
that  reigns  in  all  their  branching  aisles. 
Beyond  the  far-spreading  waters  lie 
white  and  dreamlike,  and  tempt  the 
thought  to  the  fairylands  that  sleep  just 
beyond  the  line  of  the  horizon.  A 
sweet  and  restful  mystery,  like  a  bridal 
veil,  hides  the  face  of  Nature,  and  he 
only  can  venture  to  lift  it  who  has 
won  the  privilege  by  long  and  faithful 
devotion. 

If  the  night  be  starlit  the  shadows  are 

denser,  the  outlook  narrower,  the  mystery 

deeper ;  but  what  a  vision  overhangs  the 

world  and  makes  the  night  sublime  with 

54 


The  Mystery  of  Night 

the  poetry  of  God's  thought  visible  to 
all  eyes  !  Who  does  not  feel  the  passage 
of  divine  dreams  over  his  troubled  life 
when  the  infinite  meadows  of  heaven  are 
'suddenly  abloom  with  light  ?  On  such  a 
night  immortality  is  written  on  earth  and 
sky  ;  in  the  silence  and  darkness  there  is 
no  hint  of  death ;  a  sweet  and  fragrant 
life  seems  to  breathe  its  subtle,  inaudible 
music  through  all  things.  In  the  depths 
of  the  woods  one  feels  no  loneliness ;  no 
liquid  note  of  hermit  thrush  is  needed  to 
make  that  silence  music.  The  harmony 
of  universal  movement,  rounded  by  one 
thought,  carried  forward  by  one  power, 
guided  to  one  end,  is  there  for  those  who 
will  listen ;  the  mighty  activities  which 
feed  the  century-girded  oak  from  the  in- 
visible chambers  of  air  and  the  secret 
places  of  the  earth  are  so  divinely  ad- 
justed to  their  work  that  one  shall  never 
detect  their  toil  by  any  sound  of  struggle 
or  by  any  sight  of  effort.  Noiselessly, 
invisibly,  the  great  world  breathes  new 
life  into  every  part  of  its  being,  while  the 
55 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

darkness  curtains  it  from  the  fierce  ardour 
of  the  day. 

In  the  night  the  fountains  are  open  and 
flowing;  a  marvellous  freshness  touches 
leaf  and  flower  and  grass,  and  rebuilds 
their  shattered  loveliness.  The  stars 
look  down  from  their  inaccessible  heights 
on  a  new  creation,  and  as  the  procession 
of  the  hours  passes  noiselessly  on,  it 
leaves  behind  a  dewy  fragrance  which 
shall  exhale  before  the  rising  sun,  like 
a  universal  incense,  making  the  portals 
of  the  morning  sweet  with  prophecies  of 
the  flowers  which  are  yet  to  bloom,  and 
the  birds  whose  song  still  sleeps  with  the 
hours  it  shall  set  to  music.  The  un- 
broken repose  of  Nature,  born  not  of 
idleness  but  of  the  perfect  adjustment  of 
immeasurable  forces  to  their  task,  be- 
comes more  real  and  comprehensible 
when  the  darkness  hides  the  infinitude 
of  details,  and  leaves  only  the  great  mas- 
sive effects  for  the  eye  to  rest  upon. 
While  men  sleep,  the  world  sweeps  si- 
lently onward  under  the  watchful  stars, 
56 


The  Mystery  of  Night 

in  a  flight  which  makes  no  sound  and 
leaves  no  trace.  Through  the  deep 
shadows  the  mountains  loom  in  solitary 
and  awful  grandeur ;  the  wide  seas  send 
forth  and  recall  their  mighty  tides;  the 
continents  lie  veiled  in  rolling  mists;  the 
immeasurable  universe  glitters  and  burns 
to  the  farthest  outskirts  of  space;  and 
yet,  nestled  amid  this  sublime  activity,  the 
little  flower  dreams  of  the  day,  and  in  its 
sleep  is  ministered  to  as  perfectly  as  if  it 
were  the  only  created  thing. 

When  one  stands  on  the  shores  of 
night  and  looks  off  on  that  mighty  sea 
of  darkness  in  which  a  world  lies  engulfed, 
there  is  no  thought  but  worship  and  no 
speech  but  silence.  Face  to  face  with 
immensity  and  infinity,  one  travels  in 
thought  among  the  shining  islands  that 
rise  up  out  of  the  fathomless  shadows, 
and  feels  everywhere  the  stir  of  a  life 
which  knows  no  weariness  and  makes  no 
sound,  which  pervades  the  darkness  no 
less  than  the  light,  and  makes  the  night 
glorious  as  the  day  with  its  garniture  of 
57 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

constellations;  and  even  as  one  waits, 
speechless  and  awestruck,  the  morning 
star  touches  the  edges  of  the  hills,  and  a 
new  day  breaks  resplendent  in  the  eastern 
sky. 


Chapter  VIII 

Off  Shore 

WHO  has  not  heard,  amid  the  heat 
and  din  of  cities,  the  voice  of  the 
sea  striking  suddenly  into  the  hush  of 
thought  its  penetrating  note  of  mystery 
and  longing  ?  Then  work  and  the  fever 
which  goes  with  it  vanished  on  the  in- 
stant, and  in  the  crowded  street  or  in  the 
narrow  room  there  rose  the  vision  of  un- 
broken stretches  of  sky,  free  winds,  and 
the  surge  of  the  unresting  waves.  That 
invitation  never  loses  its  alluring  power ; 
no  distance  wastes  its  music,  and  no  pre- 
occupation silences  its  solicitation.  It 
stirs  the  oldest  memories,  and  awakens 
the  most  primitive  instincts ;  the  long 
past  speaks  through  it,  and  through  it 
the  buried  generations  snatch  a  momen- 
tary immortality.  History  that  has  left 
no  record,  rich  and  varied  human  experi- 
59 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

ences  that  have  no  chronicle,  rise  out  of 
the  forgetfulness  in  which  they  are  en- 
gulfed, and  are  puissant  once  more  in 
the  intense  and  irresistible  longing  with 
which  the  heart  answers  the  call  of  the 
sea.  Once  more  the  blood  flows  with 
fuller  pulse,  the  eye  flashes  with  con- 
scious freedom  and  power,  the  heart  beats 
to  the  music  of  wind  and  wave,  as  in  the 
days  when  the  fathers  of  a  long  past 
spread  sail  and  sought  home,  spoil,  or 
change  upon  the  trackless  waste.  Into 
every  past  the  sea  has  sometime  sounded 
its  mighty  note  of  joy  or  anguish,  and 
deep  in  every  memory  there  remains 
some  vision  of  tossing  waves  that  once 
broke  on  eyes  long  sealed. 

All  day  the  free  winds  have  filled  the 
heavens,  and  flung  here  and  there  a 
handful  of  foam  upon  the  surface  of 
the  deep.  No  cloud  has  dimmed  the 
splendour  of  a  day  which  has  filled 
the  round  heavens  with  soft  music  and 
touched  the  sea  with  strange  and  change- 
ful beauty.  It  has  been  enough  to  wait 
60 


Off  Shore 

and  watch,  to  forget  self,  to  escape  the 
limitations  of  personality,  and  to  become 
part  of  the  movement,  which,  hour  by 
hour,  has  passed  through  one  marvel- 
lous change  after  another,  until  now  it 
seems  to  pause  under  the  sleepless  vigi- 
lance of  the  stars.  They  look  down 
from  their  immeasurable  altitudes  on 
the  vast  expanse  of  which  only  a  min- 
iature hemisphere  stretches  before  me. 
How  wide  and  fathomless  seems  the 
ocean,  even  from  a  single  isolated 
point !  What  infinite  distances  are  only 
half  veiled  by  the  distant  horizon  line ! 
What  islands  and  continents  and  un- 
discovered worlds  lie  beyond  that  faint 
and  ever  receding  circle  where  the  sight 
pauses,  while  the  thought  travels  un- 
impeded on  its  pathless  way  ?  There 
lies  the  untamed  world  which  brooks 
no  human  control,  and  preserves  the 
primeval  solitude  of  the  epochs  before 
men  came;  there  are  the  elemental 
forces  mingling  and  commingling  in 
eternal  fellowships  and  rivalries.  There 
61 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

the  winds  sweep,  and  the  storms  mar- 
shal their  shadows  as  on  the  first  day ; 
there,  too,  the  sunlight  sleeps  on  the 
summer  sea  as  it  slept  in  those  forgot- 
ten summers  before  a  sail  had  ever 
whitened  the  blue,  or  a  keel  cut  eva- 
nescent furrows  in  the  trackless  waste. 

Every  hour  has  brought  its  change  to 
make  this  day  memorable  ;  hour  by  hour 
the  lights  have  transformed  the  waters 
and  hung  over  them  a  sky  full  of  varied 
and  changeful  radiance.  Across  the  line 
of  the  distant  horizon  white  sails  have 
come  and  gone  in  broken  and  mysteri- 
ous procession,  and  the  imagination  has 
followed  them  far  in  their  unknown  jour- 
neyings.  As  silently  as  they  passed  from 
sight,  all  human  history  enacted  in  this 
vast  province  of  nature's  empire  has  van- 
ished, and  left  no  trace  of  itself  save  here 
and  there  a  bit  of  driftwood.  There 
lies  the  unconquered  and  forever  in- 
violate kingdom  of  forces  over  which 
no  human  skill  will  ever  cast  the  net 
of  conquest. 

62 


Off  Shore 

The  sea  speaks  to  the  imagination 
as  no  other  aspect  of  the  natural  world 
does,  because  of  its  vastness,  its  immeas- 
urable and  overwhelming  power,  its  ex- 
elusion  from  human  history,  its  free, 
buoyant,  changeful  being.  It  stands 
for  those  strange  and  unfamiliar  reve- 
lations with  which  Nature  sometimes 
breaks  in  upon  our  easy  relation  with 
her,  and  brings  back  on  the  instant  that 
sense  of  remoteness  which  one  feels  when 
in  intimate  fellowship  a  friend  suddenly 
lifts  the  curtain  from  some  great  experi- 
ence hitherto  unsuspected.  In  the  vast 
sweep  of  life  through  Nature  there  must 
always  be  aspects  of  awful  strangeness ; 
great  realms  of  mystery  will  remain 
unexplored,  and  almost  inaccessible  to 
human  thought;  days  will  dawn  at  in- 
tervals in  which  those  who  love  most  and 
are  nearest  Nature  will  feel  an  impen- 
etrable cloud  over  all  things,  and  be  sud- 
denly smitten  with  a  sense  of  weakness ; 
the  greatest  of  all  her  interpreters  are 
but  children  in  knowledge  of  her  mighty 
63 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

activities  and  forces.  On  the  sea  this 
sense  of  remoteness  and  strangeness 
comes  oftener  than  in  the  presence 
of  any  other  natural  form ;  even  the 
mountains  make  sheltered  places  for 
our  thought  at  their  feet,  or  along 
their  precipitous  ledges ;  but  the  sea 
makes  no  concessions  to  our  human 
weakness,  and  leaves  the  message  which 
it  intones  with  the  voice  of  tempest  and 
the  roar  of  surge  without  an  interpreter. 
Men  have  come  to  it  in  all  ages,  full  of 
a  passionate  desire  to  catch  its  meaning 
and  enter  into  its  secret,  but  the  thought 
of  the  boldest  of  them  has  only  skirted 
its  shores,  and  the  vast  sweep  of  un- 
tamed waters  remains  as  on  the  first 
day.  Homer  has  given  us  the  song 
of  the  landlocked  sea,  but  where  has 
the  ocean  found  a  human  voice  that  is 
not  lost  and  forgotten  when  it  speaks  to 
us  in  its  own  penetrating  tones  ?  The 
mountains  stand  revealed  in  more  than 
one  interpretation,  touched  by  their  own 
sublimity,  but  the  sea  remains  silent  in 
64 


Off  Shore 

human  speech,  because  no  voice  will 
ever  be  strong  enough  to  match  its 
awful  monody. 

It  is  because  the  sea  preserves  its 
secret  that  it  sways  our  imagination  so 
royally,  and  holds  us  by  an  influence 
which  never  loosens  its  grasp.  Again 
and  again  we  return  to  it,  spent  and 
worn,  and  it  refills  the  cup  of  vitality; 
there  is  life  enough  and  to  spare  in  its 
invisible  and  inexhaustible  chambers  to 
reclothe  the  continents  with  verdure,  and 
recreate  the  shattered  strength  of  man. 
Facing  its  unbroken  solitudes  the  limita- 
tions of  habit  and  thought  become  less 
obvious ;  we  escape  the  monotony  of  a 
routine,  which  blurs  the  senses  and  makes 
the  spirit  less  sensitive  to  the  universe 
about  it.  Life  becomes  free  and  plastic 
once  more ;  a  deep  consciousness  of  its 
inexhaustibleness  comes  over  us  and  re- 
creates hope,  vigour,  and  imagination. 
Under  the  little  bridges  of  habit  and 
theory,  which  we  have  made  for  our- 
selves, how  vast  and  fathomless  the 
5  65 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

sea  of  being  is !  What  undiscovered 
forces  are  there ;  what  unknown  secrets 
of  power;  what  unsearchable  possibili- 
ties of  development  and  change!  How 
fresh  and  new  becomes  that  which  we 
thought  outworn  with  use  and  touched 
with  decay  !  How  boundless  and  un- 
travelled  that  which  we  thought  explored 
and  sounded  to  its  remotest  bound ! 

At  night,  when  the  vision  of  the 
waters  grows  indistinct,  what  voices  it 
has  for  our  solitude !  The  "  eternal 
note  of  sadness,"  to  which  all  ages  and 
races  have  listened,  and  the  faint  echoes 
of  which  are  heard  in  every  literature, 
fills  us  with  a  longing  as  vast  as  the  sea 
and  as  vague.  Infinity  and  eternity  are 
not  too  great  for  the  spirit  when  the  spell 
of  the  sea  is  on  it,  and  the  voice  of  the 
sea  fills  it  with  uncreated  music. 


66 


Chapter  IX 

A  Mountain  Rivulet 

THIS  morning  the  day  broke  with 
a  promise  of  sultry  heat  which  has 
been  faithfully  kept.  The  air  was  life- 
less, the  birds  silent;  the  landscape 
seemed  to  shrink  from  the  ardour  of 
a  gaze  that  penetrated  to  the  very  roots 
of  the  trees,  and  covered  itself  with  a 
faint  haze.  All  things  stood  hushed 
and  motionless  in  a  dream  of  heat;  even 
the  harvest  fields  were  deserted.  On 
such  a  day  nature  herself  becomes  voice- 
less ;  she  seems  to  retreat  into  those  deep 
and  silent  chambers  where  the  sources 
of  her  life  are  hidden  alike  from  the 
heat  and  cold,  from  darkness  and  light. 
A  strange  and  foreboding  stillness  is 
abroad  in  the  earth,  and  one  hides  him- 
self from  the  sun  as  from  an  enemy. 
67 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

In  this  unnatural  hush  there  was  one 
voice  which  made  the  silence  less  omi- 
nous, and  revived  the  spent  and  withered 
freshness  of  the  spirit.  To  hear  that 
voice  seemed  to  me  this  morning  the 
one  consolation  which  the  day  offered. 
It  called  me  with  cool,  delicious  tones 
that  seemed  almost  audible,  and  I  braved 
the  deadly  heat  as  the  traveller  urges  his 
way  over  the  desert  to  the  oasis  that 
promises  a  draught  of  life.  As  I  passed 
along  the  broad  aisle  of  the  village  street, 
arched  by  the  venerable  trees  of  an  older 
generation,  I  seemed  to  be  in  dreamland; 
no  sound  broke  the  repose  of  midday, 
no  footstep  echoed  far  or  near  ;  the  cattle 
stood  motionless  in  the  fields  beneath 
the  sheltering  branches.  I  turned  into 
the  dusty  country  road,  and  saw  the 
vision  of  the  great  encircling  hills,  re- 
mote, shadowless,  and  dreamlike,  against 
the  white  August  sky.  I  sauntered 
slowly  on,  pausing  here  and  there  at  the 
foot  of  some  sturdy  oak  or  wide-branched 
apple,  until  I  reached  the  little  stream 
68 


A  Mountain  Rivulet 

that  comes  rippling  down  from  the 
mountain  glen.  A  short  walk  across 
the  fields  under  the  burning  sun  brought 
me  into  the  shadow  of  the  trees  that 
skirt  the  borders  of  the  woodland.  The 
brook  loitered  between  its  green  and 
sloping  banks  and  broke  in  tiny  billows 
over  the  smooth  stones  that  lay  in  its 
bed  ;  the  shadows  grew  denser  as  I  ad- 
vanced, and  a  delicious  coolness  from 
the  depths  of  the  woods  touched  the 
sultry  atmosphere.  A  moment  later, 
and  I  stood  within  the  glen.  The 
world  of  human  activity  had  vanished, 
shut  out  of  sight  and  sound  by  the 
deepening  foliage  of  the  trees  behind 
me.  Overhead  hardly  a  leaf  stirred,  but 
the  branching  boughs  spread  a  marvellous 
roof  between  the  heavens  and  the  wood- 
land paths,  and  suffered  only  a  stray 
flash  of  light  here  and  there  to  strike 
through.  As  I  advanced  slowly  along 
the  well-worn  path  beside  the  brook,  the 
glen  grew  more  and  more  narrow,  the 
hillsides  more  and  more  precipitous.  In 
69 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

the  dusky  light  that  sifted  down  through 
the  great  trees  I  felt  the  delicious  relief 
of  low  tones  after  the  glare  of  the  summer 
day.  It  was  another  world  into  which 
I  had  come  ;  a  world  of  unbroken  repose 
and  silence,  a  world  of  sweet  and  fragrant 
airs  cooled  by  the  mountain  rivulet  and 
shielded  by  the  mountain  summits  and 
the  arching  umbrage. 

The  path  vanished  at  last  and  nothing 
remained  but  the  narrow  channel  of  the 
brook  itself,  the  smooth  stones  making 
a  precarious  and  uncertain  footing  for 
the  adventurous  explorer.  How  sooth- 
ing was  the  ceaseless  plash  of  that  little 
stream,  fretting  its  moss-grown  banks 
and  dashing  in  miniature  surge  against 
the  stones  in  its  path !  What  infinite 
peace  reigned  in  this  place,  around 
which  the  brotherhood  of  mountains 
had  gathered,  to  hold  it  inviolate  against 
all  comers  !  The  great  rocks  were  moss- 
covered,  the  steep  slopes  on  either  side 
were  faintly  flecked  with  light,  and  one 
saw  here  and  there,  through  the  clustered 
70 


A  Mountain  Rivulet 

trunks  of  trees,  a  gleam  of  blue  sky. 
Sometimes  the  brook  narrowed  to  a  tiny 
stream,  rushing  with  impetuous  current 
between  the  rocky  walls  that  formed  its 
channel ;  then  it  spread  out  shallow  and 
noisy  over  some  broader  expanse  of 
white  sand  and  polished  pebble ;  then  it 
loitered  in  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock 
and  became  a  deep,  silent  pool,  full  of 
shadows  and  the  mysteries  which  lurk  in 
such  remote  and  dusky  places. 

It  was  beside  such  a  pool  that  I  paused 
at  last,  and  seated  myself  with  infinite 
content.  Before  me  the  glen  narrowed 
into  a  rocky  chasm,  over  which  the 
adventurous  trees  that  clung  to  the  pre- 
cipitous hillsides  spread  a  dense  roof  of 
foliage.  The  dark  pool  at  my  feet  was 
full  of  mysterious  shadows  and  seemed 
to  cover  epochs  of  buried  history.  As 
I  studied  its  motionless  surface  the  old 
mediaeval  legends  of  black,  fathomless 
pools  came  back  to  me,  and  I  felt  the 
air  of  enchantment  stealing  over  me, 
lulling  my  latter-day  scepticism  into 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

sleep,  and  making  all  mysteries  rational 
and  all  marvels  probable.  In  these 
silent  depths  no  magical  art  had  ever 
submerged  cities  or  castles  ;  on  the  still- 
est of  all  quiet  afternoons  no  muffled 
echoes,  faint  and  far,  float  up  through 
the  waveless  waters.  But  who  knows 
what  shadows  have  sunk  into  these  sun- 
less depths ;  what  reflections  of  waving 
branches,  what  siftings  of  subdued  light, 
what  hushed  echoes  of  the  forgotten 
summers  that  perished  here  ages  ago? 

In  such  a  place,  at  such  an  hour,  one 
feels  the  most  subtle  and  the  most 
searching  spell  which  Nature  ever  throws 
over  those  that  seek  her ;  a  spell  woven 
of  many  charms,  magical  potions,  and 
powerful  incantations.  The  quiet  of  the 
place,  awful  with  the  unbroken  silence 
of  centuries ;  the  soft,  half  light,  which 
conceals  more  than  it  discloses ;  the 
retreating  trunks  of  trees  interlacing 
their  branches  against  invasion  from 
light  or  heat  or  sound  ;  the  steep  ravine, 
receding  in  darker  and  darker  distance, 
72 


A  Mountain  Rivulet 

until  it  seems  like  one  of  the  fabled 
passages  to  the  under  world  :  the  wide, 
shadowy  pool,  into  which  no  sunlight 
falls,  and  in  which  night  itself  seems  to 
sleep  under  the  very  eyes  of  day  —  all 
these  things  speak  a  language  which 
even  the  dullest  must  understand.  As 
I  sit  musing,  conscious  of  the  darkest 
shadows  and  deepest  mysteries  close  at 
hand,  and  yet  undisturbed  by  them,  I 
recall  that  one  of  the  noblest  poems  on 
Death  ever  written  was  inspired  in  this 
place;  and  I  note  without  surprise,  as 
its  solemn  lines  come  back  to  me,  that 
there  is  no  horror  in  it,  no  ignoble  fear, 
but  awe  and  reverence  and  the  sublimity 
of  a  great  and  hopeful  thought.  The 
organ  music  of  those  slow-moving  verses 
seems  like  the  very  voice  of  a  place  out 
of  which  all  dread  has  gone  from  the 
thought  of  death,  and  where  the  brief 
span  of  life  seems  to  arch  the  abyss  of 
death  with  immortality. 


73 


Chapter  X 

The  Earliest  Insights 

THE  heaven  which  lies  about  us  in 
our  infancy,  like  every  other 
heaven  of  which  men  have  dreamed,  lies 
mainly  within  us  ;  it  is  the  heaven  of 
fresh  instincts,  of  unworn  receptivity,  of 
expanding  intelligence.  It  is  a  heaven 
of  faith  and  wonder,  as  every  heaven 
must  be ;  it  is  a  heaven  of  recurring 
miracle,  of  renewing  freshness,  of  deep- 
ening interest.  Into  such  a  heaven 
every  child  is  born  who  brings  into  life 
that  leaven  of  the  imagination  which 
later  on  is  to  penetrate  the  universe  and 
make  it  one  in  the  sublime  order  of 
truth  and  of  beauty. 

As  I  write,  the  merry  shouts   of  chil- 
dren come  through    the   open  window, 
and  seem  part  of  that  universal   sound 
in  which  the  stir  of  leaves,  the  faint,  far 
74 


The  Earliest  Insights 

song  of  birds,  and  the  note  of  insect 
life  are  blended.  When  I  came  across 
the  field  a  few  moments  ago,  a  voice 
called  me  from  under  the  apple  trees, 
and  a  little  figure,  with  a  flush  of  joy 
on  her  face  and  the  fadeless  light  of  love 
in  her  eyes,  came  running  with  uneven 
pace  to  meet  me.  How  slight  and  frail 
was  that  vision  of  childhood  to  the 
thought  which  saw  the  awful  forces  of 
nature  at  work,  or  rather  at  play,  about 
her  !  And  yet  how  serene  was  her  look 
upon  the  great  world  dropping  its  fruit 
at  her  feet ;  how  familiar  and  at  ease  her 
attitude  in  the  presence  of  these  sublime 
mysteries  !  She  is  at  one  with  the  hour 
and  the  scene ;  she  has  not  begun  to 
think  of  herself  as  apart  from  the  things 
which  surround  her ;  that  strange  and 
sudden  sense  of  unreality  which  makes 
me  at  times  an  alien  and  a  stranger  in 
the  presence  of  Nature,  "  moving  about 
in  world  not  realised,"  is  still  far  off. 
For  her  the  sun  shines  and  the  winds 
blow,  the  flowers  bloom  and  the  stars 
75 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

glisten,  the  trees  hold  out  their  protect- 
ing arms  and  the  grass  waves  its  soft 
garment,  and  she  accepts  them  without 
a  thought  of  what  is  behind  them  or 
shall  follow  them  ;  the  painful  process 
of  thought,  which  is  first  to  separate  her 
from  Nature  and  then  to  reunite  her  to 
it  in  a  higher  and  more  spiritual  fellow- 
ship, has  hardly  begun.  She  still  walks 
in  the  soft  light  of  faith,  and  drinks  in 
the  immortal  beauty,  as  the  flower  at 
her  side  drinks  in  the  dew  and  the  light. 
It  is  she,  after  all,  who  is  right  as  she 
plays,  joyously  and  at  home,  on  the 
ground  which  the  earthquake  may  rock, 
and  under  the  sky  which  storms  will 
darken  and  rend.  The  far-brought  in- 
stinct of  childhood  accepts  without  a 
question  that  great  truth  of  unity  and 
fellowship  to  which  knowledge  comes 
only  after  long  and  agonising  quest. 
Between  the  innocent  sleep  of  childhood 
in  the  arms  of  Nature  and  the  calm 
repose  of  the  old  man  in  the  same 
enfolding  strength  there  stretches  the 
76 


The  Earliest  Insights 

long,  sleepless  day  of  question,  search,  and 
suffering ;  at  the  end  the  wisest  returns 
to  the  goal  from  which  he  set  out. 

To  the  little  child,  Nature  is  a  succes- 
sion of  new  and  wonderful  impressions. 
Coming  he  knows  not  whence,  he  opens 
his  eyes  upon  a  world  which  is  as  new  to 
him  as  is  the  virgin  continent  to  the  first 
discoverer.  It  matters  not  that  countless 
eyes  have  already  opened  and  closed  on 
the  same  magical  appearances,  that  num- 
berless feet  have  trodden  the  same  paths ; 
for  him  the  morning  star  still  shines  on 
the  first  day,  and  the  dew  of  the  primeval 
night  is  still  on  the  flowers.  Day  by  day 
light  and  shadow  fall  in  unbroken  sue* 
cession  on  the  sensitive  surface  of  his 
mind,  and  gradually  an  elementary  order 
discovers  itself  in  the  regularity  of  these 
recurring  impressions.  Form,  colour, 
distance,  size,  relativity  of  position  are 
felt  rather  than  seen,  and  the  dim  and 
confused  mass  of  sensations  discovers 
something  trustworthy  and  stable  behind. 
Nature  is  now  simple  appearance;  thought 
77 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

has  not  begun  to  inquire  where  the  lan- 
tern is  hidden  which  throws  this  wonder- 
ful picture  on  the  clouds,  nor  who  it  is 
that  shifts  the  scenes.  Day  and  night 
alternately  spread  out  a  changeful  succes- 
sion of  wonders  simply  that  the  young 
eyes  may  look  upon  them  ;  and  grass  is 
green  and  sky  blue  that  young  feet  may 
find  soft  resting-places  and  the  young 
head  a  beautiful  roof  over  it.  Every  day 
is  a  new  discovery,  and  every  night  re- 
ceives into  its  dreams  some  new  object 
from  the  world  of  sights  and  sounds. 

Nature  surrounds  her  child  with  in- 
visible teachers,  and  makes  even  its  play 
a  training  for  the  highest  duties.  Grad- 
ually, imperceptibly,  she  expands  the 
vision  and  suffers  here  and  there  a  hint 
of  something  deeper  and  more  wonder- 
ful to  stir  and  direct  the  young  discov- 
erer. He  sees  the  apple  tree  let  fall  its 
blossoms,  and,  lo  !  the  fruit  grows  day 
by  day  to  a  mellow  and  enticing  ripeness 
under  his  eyes.  Suddenly  he  detects  a 
hidden  sequence  between  flower  and  fruit ! 
78 


The  Earliest  Insights 

The  rose  bush  is  covered  with  buds, 
small,  green,  unsightly;  a  night  passes, 
and,  behold !  great  clusters  of  blossom- 
ing flowers  that  call  him  by  their  fra- 
grance, and  when  he  has  come  reward 
him  with  a  miracle  of  colour.  Here  is 
another  mystery ;  and  day  by  day  they 
multiply  and  grow  yet  more  wonderful. 
These  varied  and  marvellous  appearances 
are  no  longer  detached  and  changeless 
to  him ;  they  are  alive,  and  they  change 
moment  by  moment.  Ah,  the  young 
feet  have  come  now  to  the  very  thresh- 
old of  the  temple,  and  fortunate  are  they 
if  there  be  one  to  guide  them  whose  heart 
still  speaks  the  language  of  childhood 
while  her  thought  rests  in  the  great  truths 

O  O 

which  come  with  deep  and  earnest  living. 
Childhood  is  defrauded  of  half  its  inherit- 
ance when  no  one  swings  wide  before  it 
the  door  into  the  fairyland  of  Nature ;  a 
land  in  which  the  most  beautiful  dreams 
are  like  visions  of  the  distant  Alps,  cloud- 
like,  apparently  evanescent,  yet  eternally 
true ;  in  which  the  commonest  realities 
79 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

are  more  wonderful  than  visions.  How 
many  children  live  all  their  childhood  in 
the  very  heart  of  this  realm,  and  are 
never  so  much  as  told  to  look  about 
them.  The  sublime  miracle  play  is 
yearly  performed  in  their  sight,  and  they 
only  hear  it  said  that  it  is  hot  or  cold, 
that  the  day  is  fair  or  dark ! 

And  now  there  come  sudden  insights 
into  still  larger  and  more  awful  truths  ;  a 
sense  of  wonder  and  awe  makes  the  night 
solemn  with  mystery.  Who  does  not 
recall  some  starlit  night  which  suddenly, 
alone  on  a  country  road,  perhaps,  seemed 
to  flash  its  splendour  into  his  very  soul 
and  lift  all  life  for  a  moment  to  a  sublime 
height  ?  The  trees  stood  silent  down  the 
long  road,  no  other  footstep  echoed  far 
or  near,  one  was  alone  with  Nature  and 
at  one  with  her;  suspecting  no  strange 
nearness  of  her  presence,  no  sudden  rev- 
elation of  her  inner  self,  and  yet  in  the 
very  mood  in  which  these  were  both 
possible  and  natural.  The  boy  of 
Wordsworth's  imagination  would  stand 
80 


The  Earliest  Insights 

beneath  the  trees  "  when  the  earliest  stars 
began  to  move  along  the  edges  of  the 
hills,"  and,  with  ringers  interwoven,  blow 
mimic  hootings  to  the  owls : 

And  they  would  shout 
Across  the  watery  vale,  and  shout  again, 
Responsive  to  his  call  —  with  quivering  peals, 
And  long  halloos,  and  screams,  and  echoes  loud, 
Redoubled  and  redoubled  ;  concourse  wild 
Of  mirth  and  jocund  din.      And  when  it  chanced 
That  pauses  of  deep  silence  mock'd  his  skill, 
Then,  sometimes,  in  that  silence,  while  he  hung 
Listening,  a  gentle  shock  of  mild  surprise 
Has  carried  far  into  his  heart  the  voice 
Of  mountain  torrents ;  or  the  visible  scene 
Would  enter  unawares  into  his  mind 
With  all  its  solemn  imagery,  its  rocks, 
Its  woods,  and  that  uncertain  heaven,  received 
Into  the  bosom  of  the  steady  lake. 

It  is  in  such  moods  as  this,  when  all 
things  are  forgotten,  and  heart  and  mind 
are  open  to  every  sight  and  sound,  that 
Nature  comes  to  the  soul  with  some  deep, 
sweet  message  of  her  inner  being,  and  with 
invisible  hand  lifts  the  curtain  of  mystery 
for  one  hushed  and  fleeting  moment. 
6  81 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

As  I  write,  the  memory  of  a  summer 
afternoon  long  ago  comes  back  to  me. 
The  old  orchard  sleeps  in  the  dreamy  air, 
the  birds  are  silent,  a  tranquil  spirit 
broods  over  the  whole  earth.  Under 
the  wide-spreading  branches  a  boy  is  in- 
tently reading.  He  has  fallen  upon  a 
bit  of  transcendental  writing  in  a  maga- 
zine, and  for  the  first  time  has  learned 
that  to  some  men  the  great  silent  world 
about  him,  that  seems  so  real  and  change- 
less, is  immaterial  and  unsubstantial  — a 
vision  projected  by  the  soul  upon  illimit- 
able space.  On  the  instant  all  things  are 
smitten  with  unreality ;  the  solid  earth 
sinks  beneath  him,  and  leaves  him  soli- 
tary and  awestruck  in  a  universe  that  is 
a  dream.  He  cannot  understand,  but  he 
feels  what  Emerson  meant  when  he  said, 
"  The  Supreme  Being  does  not  build 
up  Nature  around  us,  but  puts  it  forth 
through  us,  as  the  life  of  the  tree  puts 
forth  new  branches  and  leaves."  That 
which  was  fixed,  stable,  cast  in  permanent 
forms  forever,  was  suddenly  annihilated 
82 


The  Earliest  Insights 

by  a  revelation  which  spoke  to  the  heart 
rather  than  the  intellect,  and  laid  bare  at 
a  glance  the  unseen  spiritual  foundations 
upon  which  all  things  rest  at  last.  From 
that  moment  the  boy  saw  with  other 
eyes,  and  lived  henceforth  in  things  not 
made  with  hands. 

If  we  could  but  revive  the  conscious- 
ness of  childhood,  if  we  could  but  look 
out  once  more  through  its  unclouded 
eyes,  what  divinity  would  sow  the  uni- 
verse with  light  and  make  it  radiant  with 
fadeless  visions  of  beauty  and  of  truth  ! 


Chapter  XI 

The  Heart  of  the  Woods 

THERE  are  certain  moods  in  which 
my  feet  turn,  as  by  instinct,  to  the 
woods.  I  set  out  upon  the  winding  road 
with  a  zest  of  anticipation  whose  edge 
no  repetition  of  the  after-experience  ever 
dulls  ;  I  loiter  at  the  shaded  turn,  watched 
often  by  the  bright,  quick  eye  of  the  squir- 
rel peering  over  the  old  stone  wall,  and 
sometimes  uttering  a  chattering  protest 
against  my  invasion  of  his  hereditary  pri- 
vacy. Here  and  there  along  the  way  of 
my  familiar  pilgrimage  a  great  tree  stands 
at  the  roadside  and  spreads  its  far-reach- 
ing shadow  over  the  traveller  ;  and  these 
are  the  places  where  I  always  throw  my- 
self on  the  ground  and  wait  for  the  spirit 
of  the  hour  and  the  scene  to  take  pos- 
session of  me.  One  needs  preparation 
for  the  sanctities  and  solemnities  of  the 
84 


The  Heart  of  the  Woods 

woods,  and  in  the  slow  progress  which  I 
always  make  hitherward  the  world  slips 
away  with  the  village  that  sinks  behind 
the  hill  at  the  first  turn  and  reminds  me 
no  longer  by  sight  or  sound  that  life  is 
fretting  its  channels  there  and  every- 
where with  its  world-old  pathos  and  on- 
ward movement,  caught  on  the  sudden 
by  unseen  currents  and  swept  into  wild 
eddies,  or  flung  over  a  precipice  in  a 
mist  of  tears.  As  I  go  on  I  feel  a  re- 
turn of  emotions  which  I  am  sure  have 
their  root  in  my  earliest  ancestry,  a 
freshening  of  sense  which  tells  me  that  1 
am  nearing  again  those  scenes  which  the 
unworn  perceptions  of  primitive  men 
first  fronted.  The  conscious,  self- 
directed  intellectual  movement  within 
me  seems  somehow  to  cease,  and  some- 
thing deeper,  older,  fuller  of  mystery, 
takes  its  place  ;  the  instincts  assert  them- 
selves, and  I  am  dimly  conscious  of  an 
elder  world  through  which  I  once  walked 
—  and  yet  not  I,  but  some  one  whose 
memory  lies  back  of  my  memory,  as  the 
85 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

farthest,  faintest  hills  fade  into  infinity  on 
the  boundaries  of  the  world.  I  am  ready 
for  the  woods  now,  for  I  am  escaping  the 
limitations  of  my  own  personality,  with 
its  narrow  experience  and  its  short  mem- 
ory, and  I  am  entering  into  consciousness 
of  a  race  life  and  dimly  surveying  the 
records  of  a  race  memory. 

At  last  the  road  turns  abruptly  from 
the  hillside  to  which  it  clings  with  the 
loyalty  of  ancient  association,  and,  run- 
ning straight  across  a  low-lying  meadow, 
enters  a  deep  wood,  and  vanishes  from 
sight  for  many  a  mile.  It  is  with  a  deep 
sigh  of  content  that  I  find  myself  once 
more  in  that  dim  wonderland  whose 
mysteries  I  would  not  fathom  if  I  could. 
I  am  at  one  with  the  genius  of  the  place  ; 
I  have  escaped  customs,  habits,  conven- 
tions of  every  sort ;  the  false  growths  of 
civilisation  have  fallen  away  and  left  me 
in  primitive  strength  and  freshness  once 
more ;  my  own  personality  disappears, 
and  I  am  breathing  the  universal  life ;  I 
have  gone  back  to  the  far  beginning  of 
86 


The  Heart  of  the  Woods 

things,  and  I  am  once  more  in  that  dim, 
rich  moment  of  primeval  contact  with 
Nature  out  of  which  all  mythologies  and 
literatures  have  grown.  How  profound 
and  all-embracing  is  the  silence,  and  yet 
how  full  of  inarticulate  sound!  The 
faint  whisperings  of  the  leaves  touch  me 
first  with  a  sense  of  melody,  and  then, 
later,  with  a  sense  of  mystery.  These 
are  the  most  venerable  voices  to  which 
men  have  ever  listened ;  and  when  I 
think  of  the  immeasurable  life  that  seems 
to  be  groping  for  utterance  in  them,  I 
remember  with  no  consciousness  of  scep- 
ticism that  these  are  the  voices  which 
men  once  waited  upon  as  oracles  ;  nay, 
rather,  wait  upon  still ;  for  am  I  not  now 
listening  for  the  word  which  shall  speak 
to  me  out  of  these  shadowy  depths  and 
this  mysterious  antique  life  ?  I  am  ready 
to  listen  and  to  follow  if  only  these  va- 
grant sounds  shall  blend  into  one  clear 
note  and  declare  to  me  that  secret  which 
they  have  kept  so  well  through  the  cen- 
turies. I  wait  expectant,  as  I  have 
87 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

waited  so  often  before;  there  is  unbroken 
stillness,  then  a  faint  murmur  slowly  ris- 
ing and  spreading  until  I  am  sure  that 
the  moment  of  revelation  has  come,  then 
a  slow  recession  back  to  silence.  I  am 
not  discouraged ;  sooner  or  later  that 
multitudinous  rustle  of  the  wild  woods 
will  break  into  clear-voiced  speech.  I 
am  sure,  too,  that  some  great  movement 
of  life  is  about  to  display  itself  before 
me.  Is  not  this  hush  the  sudden  still- 
ness of  those  whom  I  have  surprised  and 
who  have,  on  the  instant,  sprung  to  their 
coverts  and  are  waiting  impatiently  until 
I  have  gone,  to  resume  their  interrupted 
frolic  !  I  have  often  watched  and  waited 
here  before  in  vain,  but  surely  to-day  I 
shall  beguile  these  hidden  folk  into  reve- 
lation of  that  wonderful  life  they  have 
suddenly  suspended  !  So  I  throw  my- 
self at  the  foot  of  a  great  pine,  and  wait; 
the  minutes  move  slowly  across  the 
unseen  dial  of  the  day,  and  I  have  be- 
come so  still  and  motionless  that  I  am 
part  of  this  secluded  world.  The  sun 
88 


The  Heart  of  the  Woods 

shines  abroad,  but  I  have  forgotten  it ; 
there  are  clouds  passing  all  day  in  their 
aerial    journeyings,    but    they    cast    no 
shadow  over  me;  even  the  flight  of  the 
hours    is    unnoticed.        Eternity    might 
come  and  I  should  be  no  wiser,  I  should 
see  no  change ;   for  does  it  not  already 
hold  these  vast  dim  aisles  and  solitudes 
within    its    peaceful    empire  ?     And    is 
there  not  here  the   slow  procession   of 
birth,  decay,  and  death,  in  that  sublime  or- 
der of  growth  which  we  call  immortality? 
I  wait  and  watch,  and  I  can  wait  for- 
ever  if    need   be.     Suddenly   from    the 
depths  of  the  forest  there  comes  a  note 
of  penetrating  sweetness,  wild,  magical, 
ethereal ;  I  slowly  raise  myself  and  wait. 
Surely  this  is  the  signal,  and  in  a  moment 
I   shall  see  the  dim  spaces  between  the 
trees  peopled  and  animate.    There  is  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  and  then  again  that  strange, 
mysterious  song  rings  through  the  listen- 
ing forest.     It  touches  me  like  a  sudden 
revelation  ;  I  forget  that  for  which  I  have 
waited  ;  I  only  know  that  the  woods  have 
89 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

found  their  voice,  and  that  I  have  fallen 
upon  the  sacred  hour  when  the  song  is  a 
prayer.  Who  shall  describe  that  wild, 
strange  music  of  the  hermit-thrush  ? 
Who  will  ever  hear  it  in  the  depths  of 
the  forest  without  a  sudden  thrill  of  joy 
and  a  sudden  sense  of  pathos?  It  is  a 
note  apart  from  the  symphony  to  which 
the  summer  has  moved  across  the  fields 
and  homes  of  men ;  it  has  no  kinship 
with  those  flooding,  liquid  melodies  which 
poured  from  feathered  throats  through 
the  long  golden  days ;  there  is  a  strain  in 
it  that  was  never  caught  under  blue  skies 
and  in  the  safe  nesting  of  the  familiar 
fields  ;  it  is  the  voice  of  solitude  suddenly 
breaking  into  sound ;  it  is  the  speech  of 
that  other  world  so  near  our  doors,  and 
yet  removed  from  us  by  uncounted  cen- 
turies and  unexplored  experiences. 

The  spell  of  silence  has  been  broken, 
and  I  venture  softly  toward  the  hidden 
fountain  from  which  this  unworldly  song 
has  flowed ;  but  I  am  too  slow  and  too 
late,  and  it  remains  to  me  a  disembodied 
90 


The  Heart  of  the  Woods 

voice  singing  the  "old,  familiar  things" 
of  a  past  which  becomes  more  and  more 
distinct  as  I  linger  in  the  shadows  of  this 
ancient  place.  As  I  walk  slowly  on, 
there  grows  upon  me  the  sense  of  a  life 
which  for  the  most  part  makes  no  sound, 
and  is  all  the  deeper  and  richer  because 
it  is  inarticulate.  The  very  thought  of 
speech  or  companionship  jars  upon  me ; 
silence  alone  is  possible  for  such  hours 
and  moods.  The  great  movement  of 
life  which  builds  these  mighty  trunks  and 
sends  the  vital  currents  to  their  highest 
branches,  which  alternately  clothes  and 
denudes  them,  makes  no  sound ;  cycle 
after  cycle  have  the  completed  centuries 
made,  and  yet  no  sign  of  waning  power 
here,  no  evidence  of  a  finished  work ! 
Here  life  first  dawned  upon  men ;  here, 
slowly,  it  discovered  its  meaning  to  them  ; 
here  the  first  impressions  fell  upon  senses 
keen  with  desire  for  untried  sensations ; 
here  the  first  great  thoughts,  vast  as  the 
forest  and  as  shadowy,  moved  slowly  on 
toward  conscious  clearness  in  minds  that 
91 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

were  just  beginning  to  think ;  here  and 
not  elsewhere  are  the  roots  of  those  ear- 
liest conceptions  of  Nature  and  Life, 
which  again  and  again  have  come  to  such 
glorious  blossoming  in  the  literatures  of 
the  race.  This  is,  in  a  word,  the  world 
of  primal  instinct  and  impression ;  and, 
therefore,  forever  the  deepest,  most  fa- 
miliar, and  yet  most  marvellous  world 
to  which  men  may  come  in  all  their 
wanderings. 

As  these  thoughts  come  and  go,  un- 
clothed with  words  and  unsought  by  will, 
I  grasp  again  the  deep  truth  that  the  tru- 
est life  is  unconscious  and  almost  voice- 
less ;  that  there  is  no  rich,  true,  articulate 
life  unless  there  flows  under  it  a  wide, 
deep  current  of  unspoken,  almost  uncon- 
scious, thought  and  feeling ;  that  the  best 
one  ever  says  or  does  is  as  a  few  drops 
flung  into  the  sunlight  from  a  swift,  hid- 
den stream,  and  shining  for  a  moment  as 
they  fall  again  into  a  current  inaudible  and 
invisible.  The  intellectual  life  that  is  all 
expressive,  that  is  all  conscious  and  self- 
92 


The  Heart  of  the  Woods 

directed,  is  but  a  shallow  life  at  best ;  he 
only  lives  deeply  in  the  intellect  whose 
thought  begins  in  instinct,  rises  slowly 
through  experience,  carrying  with  it  into 
consciousness  the  noblest,  truest  one  has 
felt  and  been,  and  finds  speech  at  Jast 
by  impulse  and  direction  of  the  same 
law  which  summons  the  seed  from  the 
soil  and  lifts  it,  growth  by  growth,  to  the 
beauty  and  the  sweetness  of  the  flower. 
Under  the  same  law  of  unconscious 
growth  every  true  poem,  every  great 
work  of  art,  and  every  genuine  noble 
character,  has  fashioned  itself  and  come 
at  last  to  conscious  perfectness  and  rec- 
ognition. Genius  is  nearer  Nature  than 
talent ;  it  is  only  when  it  strays  away 
from  Nature,  and  loses  itself  in  mere 
dexterities,  that  it  degenerates  into  skill 
and  becomes  a  tool  with  which  to  work, 
and  not  a  gift  from  heaven.  The  silence 
of  the  deep  woods  is  pregnant  with  mighty 
growths.  Says  Maurice  de  Guerin,  true 
poet  and  lover  of  Nature :  "  An  innu- 
merable generation  actually  hangs  on  the 
93 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

branches  of  all  the  trees,  on  the  fibres  of 
the  most  insignificant  grasses,  like  babes 
on  the  mother's  breast.  All  these  germs, 
incalculable  in  their  number  and  variety, 
are  there  suspended  in  their  cradle  between 
heaven  and  earth,  and  given  over  to  the 
winds,  whose  charge  it  is  to  rock  these 
beings.  Unseen  amid  the  living  forests 
swing  the  forests  of  the  future.  Nature 
is  all  absorbed  in  the  vast  cares  of  her 
maternity/' 

But  while  I  walk  and  meditate,  letting 
the  forest  tell  its  story  to  my  innermost 
thought,  and  recalling  here  only  that 
which  is  most  obvious  and  superficial 
(who  is  sufficient  for  the  deeper  things 
that  lie  like  pearls  in  the  depths  of  his 
being?),  the  light  grows  dimmer,  and  I 
know  that  the  day  has  gone.  I  retrace 
my  steps  until  through  the  clustered 
trunks  of  the  trees  I  see  once  more  the 
green  meadows  soft  in  the  light  of  sun- 
set. As  I  pass  over  the  boundary  line 
of  the  forest  once  more,  faint  and  far  the 
song  of  the  thrush  searches  the  wood, 
94 


The  Heart  of  the  Woods 

and,  finding  me,  leaves  its  ethereal  note 
in  my  memory  —  a  note  wild  as  the  for- 
est, and  thrilling  into  momentary  con- 
sciousness I  know  not  what  forgotten 
ages  of  awe  and  wonder  and  worship. 


95 


Chapter  XII 

Beside   the    River 

ALL  day  long  the  river  has  moved 
through  my  thought  as  it  rolls 
through  the  landscape  spread  out  at  my 
feet.  There  it  lies,  winding  for  many  a 
mile  within  the  boundaries  of  this  noble 
outlook ;  by  day  flecked  with  sails  ap- 
proaching and  receding,  and  at  night 
shining  under  the  full  moon  like  a 
girdle  of  silver,  clasping  mountains 
and  broad  meadow  lands  in  a  varied 
but  harmonious  landscape.  From  the 
point  at  which  I  look  out  upon  its  long 
course,  the  stream  has  a  setting  worthy 
of  its  volume  and  its  history.  In  the 
distant  background  a  mountain  range, 
of  noble  altitude  and  outline,  has  to- 
day an  ethereal  strength  and  splendour ; 
a  slight  haze  has  obliterated  all  details, 
and  left  the  great  hills  soft  and  dream- 
96 


Beside  the  River 

like  in  the  September  sunshine ;  at  first 
sight  one  waits  to  see  them  vanish,  but 
they  remain,  wrought  upon  by  sunlight 
and  atmosphere,  until  the  twilight  touches 
them  with  purple  and  night  turns  them 
into  mighty  shadows.  On  either  hand, 
in  the  middle  ground  of  the  picture, 
long  lines  of  hills  shut  the  river  within 
a  world  of  its  own,  and  shelter  the  green 
meadows,  the  fallow  fields,  and  the 
stretches  of  woodland  that  cover  the 
broad  sweep  from  the  river's  edge  to 
their  own  bases.  Below  me  the  quiet 
current  enters  the  heart  of  another  group 
of  mountains,  flowing  silently  between 
the  precipitous  and  rocky  heights  that 
lift  themselves  on  either  hand,  indif- 
ferent alike  to  the  frowning  summits 
when  the  sun  warms  them  with  smiles, 
and  to  the  black  and  portentous  shad- 
ows which  they  often  cast  across  the 
channel  at  their  feet.  The  solitude 
and  awe  which  belong  to  mountain 
passes  through  which  great  rivers  flow 
clothe  this  place  with  solemnity  and 
7  97 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

majesty  as  with  a  visible  garment,  and 
fill  one  with  a  sense  of  indescribable  awe. 
The  river  which  lies  before  me  moves 
through  a  mist  of  legend  and  tradition 
as  well  as  through  a  landscape  of  sub- 
stantial history.  It  has  been  called  an 
epical  river  because  of  the  varied  and 
sustained  beauty  through  which  it  sweeps 
from  its  mountain  sources  to  the  sea ;  but 
as  I  turn  from  it,  and  the  visible  loveli- 
ness of  its  banks  fades  from  sight,  I  re- 
call that  other  landscape  of  history  and 
legend  through  which  it  rolls,  and  that, 
for  the  moment,  is  the  reality,  and  the 
other  the  shadow.  A  web  of  human 
associations  spreads  itself  over  this  long 
valley  like  a  richer  atmosphere;  the 
fields  are  ripe  with  action  and  achieve- 
ment ;  every  projecting  point  has  its 
story,  every  gentle  curve  and  quiet  in- 
let its  memory ;  for  many  and  many  a 
decade  of  years  life  has  touched  this 
silent  stream  and  humanised  its  power 
and  beauty  until  it  has  become  part  of 
the  vast  human  experience  wrought  out 
98 


Beside  the  River 

between  these  mountain  boundaries.  As 
I  think  of  these  things  and  of  the  world 
of  dear  past  things  which  they  recall,  an- 
other great  river  sweeps  into  the  vision 
of  memory,  but  how  different !  There 
conies  with  it  no  warmth  of  human  emo- 
tion, but  only  the  breath  of  the  unbroken 
woods,  the  awful  aspect  of  the  great  pre- 
cipitous cliffs,  the  vast  solitude  out  of 
which  it  rolls,  with  troubled  current,  to 
mingle  its  mysterious  waters  with  the 
northern  gulf.  It  is  a  stream  which 
Nature  still  keeps  for  herself,  and  suf- 
fers no  division  of  ownership  with  men ; 
a  stream  as  wild  and  solitary  as  the  re- 
mote and  unpeopled  land  through  which 
it  moves.  This  river,  on  the  other  hand, 
bears  every  hour  the  wealth  of  a  great  in- 
land commerce  upon  its  wide  current ; 
it  flows  past  cities  and  villages  scattered 
thickly  along  its  course,  past  countless 
homes  whose  lights  weave  a  shining  net 
along  its  banks  at  night ;  on  still  Sabbath 
mornings  the  bells  answer  each  other  in 
almost  unbroken  peal  along  its  course. 
99 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

Emerging  from  an  unknown  past  in  the 
earliest  days  of  discovery,  human  inter- 
ests have  steadily  multiplied  along  its 
shores,  and  spread  over  it  the  countless 
lines  of  human  activity.  To-day  the 
Argo,  multiplied  a  thousand  times,  seeks 
the  golden  fleece  of  commerce  at  every 
point  along  its  shores  ;  and  of  the  count- 
less Jasons  who  make  the  voyage  few  re- 
turn empty-handed.  Hour  after  hour 
the  white  sails  fly  in  mysterious  and 
changing  lines,  messengers  of  wealth 
and  trade  and  pleasure,  whose  voyages 
are  no  sooner  ended  than  they  begin 
again.  It  is  this  wealth  of  action  and 
achievement  which  make  the  names  of 
great  rivers  sonorous  as  the  voices  of  the 
centuries ;  the  Nile,  the  Danube,  the 
Rhine,  the  Hudson — how  weighty  are 
these  words  with  associations  old  as 
history  and  deep  as  the  human  heart ! 
The  rivers  are  the  great  channels 
through  which  the  ceaseless  interchange 
of  the  elements  goes  on  ;  they  unite  the 
heart  of  the  continents  and  the  solitary 

100 


Beside  the  River 

places  of  the  mountains  with  the  univer- 
sal sea  which  washes  all  shores  and  beats 
its  melancholy  refrain  at  either  pole. 
Into  their  currents  the  hills  and  uplands 
pour  their  streams  ;  to  them  the  little 
rivulets  come  laughing  and  singing  down 
from  their  sources  in  the  forest  depths. 
A  drop  falling  from  a  passing  shower 
into  the  lake  of  Delolo  may  be  carried 
eastward,  through  the  Zambesi,  to  the 
Indian  Ocean,  or  westward,  along  the 
transcontinental  course  of  the  Congo,  to 
the  Atlantic.  The  mists  that  rise  from 
great  streams,  separated  by  vast  stretches 
of  territory,  commingle  in  the  upper  air, 
and  are  carried  by  vagrant  winds  to  the 
wheat-fields  of  the  far  Northwest  or  the 
rice-fields  of  the  South.  The  ocean 
ceaselessly  makes  the  circuit  of  the  globe, 
and  summons  its  tributaries  along  all 
shores  to  itself.  But  it  gives  even  more 
lavishly  than  it  receives  ;  day  and  night 
there  rise  over  its  vast  expanse  those 
invisible  clouds  of  moisture  which  dif- 
fuse themselves  through  the  atmosphere, 

101 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

and  descend  at  last  upon  the  earth  to 
pour,  sooner  or  later,  into  the  rivers, 
and  be  returned  whence  they  came. 
This  subtle  commerce,  universal  through- 

*  o 

out  the  whole  domain  of  nature,  animate 
and  inanimate,  tells  us  a  common  truth 
with  the  rose,  and  corrects  the  false 
report  of  the  senses  that  all  things  are 
fixed  and  isolated.  It  discloses  a  com- 
munion of  matter  with  matter,  a  fellow- 
ship of  continent  with  continent,  an 
interchange  of  forces  which  throws  a 
broad  light  on  things  still  deeper  and 
more  marvellous.  It  affirms  the  unity 
of  all  created  things  and  predicts  the 
dawn  of  a  new  thought  of  the  kinship 
of  races  ;  there  is  in  it  the  prophecy  of 
new  insights  into  the  universal  life  of 
men,  of  fellowships  that  shall  rise  to  the 
recognition  of  new  duties,  and  of  a  well- 
being  which  shall  bind  the  weakest  to 
the  strongest,  the  poorest  to  the  richest, 
the  lowest  to  the  highest,  by  the  golden 
bond  of  a  diviner  love. 


1 02 


Chapter  XIII 

At  the  Spring 

THE  path  across  the  fields  is  so  well 
worn  that  one  can  find  his  way 
along  its  devious  course  by  night  almost 
as  easily  as  by  day.  I  have  gone  over 
it  at  all  hours,  and  have  never  returned 
without  some  fresh  and  cheering  mem- 
ory for  other  and  less  favoured  days. 
The  fields  across  which  it  leads  one,  with 
the  unfailing  suggestion  of  something 
better  beyond,  are  undulating  and  dotted 
here  and  there  with  browsing  cattle. 
The  landscape  is  full  of  pastoral  repose 
and  charm  —  the  charm  of  familiar 
things  that  are  touched  with  old  memo- 
ries, and  upon  whose  natural  beauty 
there  rests  the  reflected  light  of  days 
that  have  become  idyllic.  No  one  can 
walk  along  a  country  road  over  which 
103 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

as  a  boy  he  heard  the  daily  invitation 
of  the  schoolhouse  bell  without  discover- 
ing at  every  turn  some  loveliness  never 
revealed  save  to  the  glance  of  unfor- 
gotten  youth.  The  path  which  leads 
to  the  spring  has  this  unfailing  charm 
for  me,  and  for  many  who  have  long 
ceased  to  follow  its  winding  course.  At 
this  season  it  is  touched  here  and  there 
by  the  autumnal  splendour,  and  fairly 
riots  in  the  profusion  of  the  golden-rod, 
whose  yellow  plumes  are  lighting  the 
retreating  steps  of  summer  across  the 
fields.  Great  masses  of  brilliant  wood- 
bine cover  the  stone  walls  and  hang 
from  the  trees  along  the  fences.  The 
corn,  cut  and  stacked  in  orderly  lines, 
is  not  without  its  transforming  touch  of 
colour ;  and  while  the  trees  still  wait  for 
the  coronation  of  the  year  Nature  seems 
to  have  passed  along  this  path  and 
turned  it  into  a  royal  highway.  As  it 
approaches  the  woods,  one  gets  glimpses 
of  the  village  spires  in  the  distance,  and 
finds  a  new  charm  in  this  borderland 
104 


At  the  Spring 

between  sunlight  and  shadow,  between 
solitude  and  the  companionship  of  hu- 
man life.  A  little  distance  along  the 
edges  of  the  woods,  with  an  occasional 
detour  of  the  path  into  the  shades  of 
the  forest,  brings  one  to  the  spring.  A 
great,  rudely-cut  stone  marks  the  place, 
and  makes  a  kind  of  background  for  the 
cool,  limpid  pool  into  which  a  few  leaves 
fall  from  the  woods,  but  which  belongs 
to  the  open  sky  and  fields.  There  is 
certainly  no  more  gentle,  reposeful  scene 
than  this ;  so  secluded  from  the  dust 
and  whirl  of  cities  and  thoroughfares, 
and  yet  so  near  to  ancient  homes,  so 
sweet  and  life-giving  in  its  service  to 
them,  so  often  and  so  eagerly  sought  at 
all  seasons  and  by  men  of  all  conditions. 
Here  oftenest  come  the  restless  feet  of 
children,  and  their  shouts  are  almost 
die  only  sounds  that  ever  break  this 
solitude. 

To  me  there  is  something  inexpres- 
sibly sweet  and  refreshing  in  the  familiar 
and  yet  unfailing  loveliness  of  this  place. 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

The  fields  are  always  peaceful,  and  the 
slow  motions  of  the  cattle  grouped  here 
and  there  under  the  shadows  of  solitary- 
trees,  or  of  the  sheep  browsing  in  long, 
irregular  lines  across  the  further  meadows, 
give  the  landscape  that  touch  of  pas- 
toral life  which  unites  us  with  Nature  in 
the  oldest  and  most  homelike  relations. 
Here,  on  still  summer  afternoons,  one 
seems  to  have  come  upon  a  sleeping 
world ;  a  world  over  whose  slumber  the 
clouds  are  passing  like  peaceful  dreams. 
In  such  an  hour  the  limpid  water  of  the 
spring  seems  to  rise  out  of  the  very 
heart  of  the  earth,  and  to  bring  with  it 
an  unfailing  refreshment  of  spirit.  The 
white  sand  through  which  it  finds  its 
way  makes  its  transparent  clearness 
more  apparent,  and  the  great  stone 
seems  to  hold  back  the  woods  from  an 
approach  that  would  overshadow  it.  It 
rises  so  silently  into  the  visible  world 
from  the  unseen  depths  that  one  can- 
not but  feel  some  illusion  of  sentiment 
thrown  over  it,  some  disclosure  of  truth 
106 


At  the  Spring 

escaping  with  it  from  the  darkness  be- 
neath. Whence  does  it  flow,  and  what 
has  its  journey  been?  Did  some  remote 
mountain  range  gather  its  waters  from 
the  clouds  and  send  them  down  through 
long  and  winding  channels  deep  in  its 
heart?  Is  there  far  below  an  invisible 
stream  flowing,  like  the  river  Alphaeus, 
unseen  and  unheard  beneath  the  earth? 
The  spring  is  mute  when  these  questions 
rise  to  lips  which  it  is  always  ready  to 
moisten  from  its  cool  depths.  It  is 
enough  that  in  this  quiet  place  the 
bounty  of  Nature  never  ceases  to  over- 
flow, and  that  here  she  holds  out  the 
cup  of  refreshment  with  royal  indiffer- 
ence to  gratitude  or  neglect.  Here  she 
ministers  to  every  comer  as  if  her  whole 
life  were  a  service.  One  forgets  that 
behind  this  cup  of  cold  water,  held  out 
to  the  humblest,  there  sweep  sublime 
powers,  and  that  the  same  hand  which 
serves  him  here  moves  in  their  courses 
the  planets,  whose  faint  reflections  shine 
in  this  silent  pool  by  night. 
107 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

Springs  have  been  natural  centres  of 
life  from  the  earliest  times.  Deep  in 
the  solitude  of  forests,  or  fringed  with 
foliage  in  the  heart  of  deserts,  they  have 
alike  served  the  needs  and  appealed  to 
the  sentiment  of  men.  Around  the 
wells  cluster  the  most  venerable  associa- 
tions of  the  ancient  patriarchal  families ; 
the  beautiful  pastoral  life  of  the  Old 
Testament,  full  of  deep,  unwritten  po- 
etry, discovers  no  scenes  more  character- 
istic and  touching  than  those  which  were 
enacted  beside  these  sources  of  fertility. 
Green  and  fruitful  in  the  memory  of  the 
most  sacred  history  repose  these  cool, 
refreshing  pools  under  the  burning 
glance  of  the  tropical  sun.  Here,  too, 
as  in  those  distant  lands,  life  is  kept  in 
constant  freshness  around  the  borders  of 
the  spring.  The  grass  grows  green  and 
dense  here  the  whole  summer  through, 
and  here  there  is  always  a  breath  of  cooler 
air  when  the  fields  glow  with  intense 
heat.  In  such  places  Nature  waits  to 
touch  the  fevered  spirit  with  something 
1 08 


At  the  Spring 

of  her  own  peace,  and  to  keep  alive  for- 
ever in  the  hearts  of  men  that  faith  in 
things  unseen  which  rises  like  a  spring 
from  the  depths,  and  makes  a  centre  of 
fruitful  and  beautiful  life. 


109 


Chapter  XIV 

On  the  Heights 

NATURE  creates  days  for  special 
insights  and  outlooks  —  days 
whose  distinctive  qualities  make  them 
part  of  the  universal  revelation  of  the 
year.  There  are  days  for  the  deep  woods, 
and  for  the  open  fields ;  days  for  the 
beach,  and  for  the  inland  river ;  days  for 
solitary  musing  beside  some  secluded 
rivulet,  and  days  for  the  companionship 
and  movement  of  the  highways.  Each 
day  is  fitted  by  some  subtle  magic  of 
adaptation  to  the  place  and  the  aspect  of 
nature  which  it  is  to  reveal  with  a  clear- 
ness denied  to  other  hours.  There  came 
such  a  day  not  long  ago  to  me ;  a  day  of 
tonic  atmosphere  —  clear,  cloudless,  in- 
spiring ;  there  was  no  audible  invitation 
in  the  air,  but  I  knew  by  some  instinct 
that  the  day  and  the  mountains  were 
no 


On  the  Heights 

parts  of  one  complete  whole.  The 
morning  itself  was  a  new  birth  of  nature, 
full  of  promise  and  prophecy;  one  of 
those  hours  in  which  only  the  greatest 
and  noblest  things  are  credible,  in  which 
one  rejects  unfaith  and  doubt  and  all 
lesser  and  meaner  things  as  dreams  of 
a  night  from  which  there  has  come  an 
eternal  awakening ;  a  day  such  as  Emer- 
son had  in  thought  when  he  wrote :  "The 
scholar  must  look  long  for  the  right  hour 
for  Plato's  Timseus.  At  last  the  elect 
morning  arrives,  the  early  dawn  —  a  few 
lights  conspicuous  in  the  heaven,  as  of  a 
world  just  created  and  still  becoming  — 
and  in  its  wide  leisure  we  dare  open  that 
book.  There  are  days  when  the  great 
are  near  us,  when  there  is  no  frown  on 
their  brow,  no  condescension  even;  when 
they  take  us  by  the  hand,  and  we  share 
their  thought."  When  such  a  morning 
dawns,  one  demands,  by  right  of  his  own 
nature,  the  pilotage  of  great  thoughts  to 
some  height  whence  the  whole  world  will 
lie  before  him  ;  one  knows  by  unclouded 
in 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

insight  that  life  is  greater  than  all  his 
dreams,  and  that  he  is  heir,  not  only  of 
the  centuries,  but  of  eternity. 

Such  days  belong  to  the  mountains ; 
and  when  I  opened  my  window  on  this 
morning,  I  was  in  no  doubt  as  to  the  in- 
vitation held  forth  by  earth  and  sky. 
There  was  exhilaration  in  the  very 
thought  of  the  long  climb,  and  at  an 
early  hour  I  was  fast  leaving  the  village 
behind  me.  The  road  skirted  the  base 
of  the  mountain,  and  struck  at  once  into 
the  heart  of  the  wilderness,  which  the 
clustering  peaks  have  preserved  from 
any  but  the  most  fleeting  associations 
with  the  peopled  world  around.  A  bar- 
rier of  ancient  silence  and  solitude  soon 
separated  me  even  in  thought  from  the 
familiar  scenes  I  had  left.  A  virginal 
beauty  rested  upon  the  road,  and  sank 
deep  into  my  own  heart  as  I  passed 
along ;  to  be  silent  and  open-minded  was 
enough  to  bring  one  into  fellowship  with 
the  hour  and  the  scene.  The  clear, 
bracing  air,  the  rustling  of  leaves  slowly 

112 


On  the  Heights 

sifting  down  through  the  lower  branches, 
the  solemn  quietude,  filled  the  morning 
with  a  deep  joy  that  touched  the  very 
sources  of  life,  and  made  them  sweet  in 
every  thought  and  emotion.  It  was  like 
a  new  beginning  in  the  old,  old  story  of 
time ;  the  stains  of  ancient  wrong,  the 
blights  of  sorrow,  the  wrecks  of  hope, 
were  gone;  sweet  with  the  untrodden 
freshness  of  a  new  day  lay  the  earth,  and 
looked  up  to  the  heavens  with  a  gaze  as 
pure  and  calm  as  their  own.  Somehow 
all  life  seemed  sublimated  in  that  golden 
sunshine  ;  the  grosser  elements  had  van- 
ished, the  material  had  become  the  trans- 
parent medium  of  the  spiritual,  the 
discords  had  blended  into  harmony,  and 
one  would  have  heard  without  surprise 
the  faint,  far  song  of  the  stars.  The 
whole  world  was  one  vast  articulate 
poem,  and  human  life  added  its  own 
strain  of  penetrating  sweetness.  At  last, 
after  all  these  years  of  struggle  and  fail- 
ure, one  was  really  living ! 

The  road,  slowly  ascending  the  long 
8  113 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

wooded  slope,  wound  its  way  through 
the  forest  until  it  brought  me  to  the 
mountain  path  which  climbs,  with  many 
a  halt  and  pause,  to  the  very  summit. 
Dense  foliage  overshadows  it,  a  little 
thinner  now  that  the  hand  of  autumn 
has  begun  to  disrobe  the  trees.  Great 
rocks  often  lie  in  the  course  of  the  path 
and  send  it  in  a  narrow  curve  around 
them.  Sometimes  one  comes  upon  a 
bold  ascent  up  the  face  of  a  projecting 
cliff;  sometimes  one  plunges  into  the 
very  heart  of  the  shadows  as  they  gather 
over  the  rocky  channel  of  the  brook  that 
later  will  run  foaming  down  to  the  valley. 
Step  by  step  one  widens  his  horizon,  al- 
though it  is  only  at  intervals  that  he  is 
able  to  note  his  progress  upward.  At 
the  base  of  the  mountain  one  saw  only  a 
circle  of  hills,  and  the  long  sweep  of 
wooded  slopes  which  converge  in  the 
valley ;  gradually  the  horizon  widens  as 
one  climbs  beyond  the  summit  lines  of 
the  lower  hills ;  at  turns  in  the  path, 
where  it  crosses  some  rocky  declivity, 
114 


On  the  Heights 

one  looks  out  upon  a  landscape  into 
which  some  new  feature  enters  with  every 
new  outlook ;  one  range  of  hills  after  an- 
other sinks  below  the  level  of  vision, 
and  discloses  another  strip  of  undiscov- 
ered country  beyond  ;  and  so  one  climbs, 
step  by  step,  into  the  glory  of  a  new 
world.  The  solitude,  the  silence,  the 
radiant  beauty  of  the  morning,  the  ex- 
panding sweep  of  hills  and  valleys  at 
one's  feet,  fill  one  with  eager  longing  for 
the  unbroken  circle  of  sky  at  the  summit, 
and  prepare  one  for  the  thrill  of  joy  with 
which  the  soul  answers  the  outspread 
vision. 

At  last  only  a  few  rocks  interpose 
between  the  summit  and  the  last  resting- 
place.  I  wait  a  moment  longer  than  I 
need,  as  one  pushes  back  for  an  instant 
the  cup  from  which  he  has  long  desired 
to  drink.  I  even  shun  the  noble  vistas 
that  open  on  either  side,  postponing  to 
the  moment  of  perfect  achievement  the 
partial  successes  already  won.  But  the 
rocks  are  soon  climbed,  the  summit  is 
"5 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

reached  !  The  world  is  at  my  feet  —  the 
mountain  ranges  like  great  billows,  and 
the  valleys,  deep,  far,  and  shadowy,  be- 
tween ;  and  overhead  the  unbroken  arch 
of  sky  melting  into  illimitable  space 
through  infinite  gradations  of  blue.  The 
vision  which  has  haunted  me  so  long 
with  illusive  hints  of  range  and  splendour 
is  mine  at  last,  and  I  have  no  greeting 
for  it  but  the  breathless  eagerness  with 
which  I  turn  from  point  to  point,  as  if  to 
drink  all  in  with  one  compelling  glance. 
But  the  landscape  does  not  yield  its  in- 
finite variety  to  the  first  nor  to  the  second 
glance ;  the  agitation  of  the  first  outlook 
gives  place  to  a  deep,  calm  joy  ;  the  eager 
desire  to  possess  on  the  instant  what  has 
been  won  by  long  toil  and  patience  is  fol- 
lowed by  a  quiet  mood  which  banishes 
all  thought  of  self,  and  waits  upon  the 
hour  and  the  scene  for  the  revelation 
they  will  make  in  their  own  good  time. 
Slowly  the  noble  landscape  reveals  itself 
to  me  in  its  vast  range  and  its  marvellous 
variety.  The  sombre  groups  of  moun- 
116 


On  the  Heights 

tains  to  the  west  become  distinct  and 
majestic  as  I  look  into  their  deep  re- 
cesses ;  far  off  to  the  north  the  massive 
bulk  and  impressive  outlines  of  a  solitary 
peak  grow  upon  me  until  it  seems  to 
dominate  the  whole  country-side.  A 
kingly  mountain  truly,  of  whose  "  night 
of  pines "  our  saintly  poet  has  sung ; 
from  this  distance  a  vast  and  softened 
shadow  against  the  stainless  sky.  To 
the  east  one  sees  the  long  uplands,  with 
slender  spires  rising  here  and  there  from 
clustered  homes ;  to  the  south,  a  vast 
stretch  of  fertile  fields,  rolling  like  a  fruit- 
ful sea  to  the  horizon  ;  within  the  mighty 
circle,  groups  of  lower  hills,  wooded  val- 
leys shadowy  and  mysterious  in  the  dis- 
tance, villages  and  scattered  homes. 

It  was  a  deep  saying  of  Goethe's  that 
"  on  every  height  there  lies  repose."  A 
Sabbath  stillness  and  solemnity  reign  in 
this  upper  sphere,  where  the  sound  of 
human  toil  never  comes  and  the  cry  of 
humanity  never  penetrates.  The  boun- 
daries that  confine  and  baffle  the  vision 
117 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

along  the  walks  of  ordinary  life  have  all 
faded  out;  great  States  lie  together  in 
this  outlook  without  visible  lines  of  divi- 
sion or  separation.  The  obstacles  to  sight 
which  hourly  baffle  and  confuse  are  gone; 
from  horizon  to  horizon  all  things  are 
clear  and  visible,  and  the  world  is  vast 
and  beautiful  to  its  remotest  boundaries. 
The  repose  which  lies  on  the  heights  of 
life  is  born  of  the  vast  and  unclouded 
vision  which  looks  down  upon  all  ob- 
stacles, over  all  barriers,  and  takes  in  at 
a  glance  the  mighty  scope  of  human 
activity  and  the  unbroken  sky  which 
overhangs  it  continually  like  a  visible 
infinity.  On  such  heights  it  is  the 
blessed  reward  of  a  few  elect  souls  to 
live ;  but  the  paths  thither  are  open  to 
every  traveller. 


118 


Chapter  XV 

Under  College  Elms 

QTRETCHED  under  the  spreading 
k3  branches  of  this  noble  elm,  which 
has  seen  so  many  college  generations 
come  and  go,  I  have  well-nigh  forgotten 
that  life  has  any  limitations  of  space  or 
time ;  work,  anxiety,  weariness  fade  out 
of  thought  under  a  heaven  from  which 
every  cloud  has  vanished,  and  the  eye 
pierces  everywhere  the  infinite  depths 
of  the  upper  firmament.  Days  are  not 
always  radiant  here,  and  the  stream  of  life 
as  it  flows  through  this  tranquil  valley  is 
flecked  with  shadows ;  but  all  sweet  in- 
fluences have  combined  to  touch  this 
passing  hour  with  unspeakable  peace. 
Here  are  the  old  familiar  footpaths  trod- 
den so  often  with  hurrying  feet  in  other 
years  ;  here  are  the  welt-worn  seats  about 
which  familiar  groups  have  so  often 
119 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

gathered  and  sent  the  echoes  of  their 
songs  flying  heavenward ;  here  are  the 
rooms  which  will  never  lose  the  sense  of 
home  because  of  those  who  have  lived  in 
them.  The  chapel  bell  tolls  as  of  old, 
and  the  crowd  comes  hurrying  along  like 
the  generations  before  them,  but  the  eye 
sees  no  familiar  faces  among  them.  It  is 
a  place  of  intense  and  rich  living,  and  yet 
to-day,  and  for  me,  it  is  a  place  of  memory. 
The  life  once  lived  here  is  as  truly 
finished  as  if  eternity  had  placed  the  im- 
passable gulf  between  it  and  this  quiet 
hour.  These  are  the  shores  through 
which  the  river  once  passed,  these  the 
green  fields  which  encircled  it,  these  the 
mountains  which  flung  their  shadows 
over  it,  but  the  river  itself  has  swept 
leagues  onward. 

Mr.  Higginson  has  written  charmingly 
about  "  An  Old  Latin  Text- Book,"  and 
there  is  surely  something  magical  in  the 
power  with  which  these  well-worn  vol- 
umes lay  their  spell  upon  us,  and  carry 
us  back  to  other  scenes  and  men.  I 

120 


Under  College  Elms 

have  a  copy  of  Virgil  from  which  all 
manner  of  old-time  things  slip  out  as  I 
open  its  pages.  The  eager  enthusiasm 
of  the  first  dawning  appreciation  of  the 
undying  beauty  of  the  old  poet,  faintly 
discerned  in  the  language  which  embalms 
it,  comes  back  like  a  whiff  of  fragrance 
from  some  by-gone  summer.  The  po- 
tency of  college  memories  lies  in  the  fact 
that  in  those  years  we  made  the  most 
memorable  discoveries  of  our  lives  ;  the 
unknown  river  may  widen  and  deepen 
beyond  our  thought,  but  the  most  note- 
worthy moment  in  all  our  wanderings 
with  it  will  always  be  the  moment  when 
we  first  came  upon  it,  and  there  dawned 
upon  us  the  sense  of  something  new  and 
great.  To  most  boys  this  rich  and 
never-to-be-forgotten  experience  comes 
in  college.  Except  in  cases  of  rare  good 
fortune,  a  boy  is  not  ripe  for  the  literary 
spirit  in  the  classic  literature  until  the 
college  atmosphere  surrounds  him.  To 
many  it  never  discovers  itself  at  all,  and 
the  languages  which  were  dead  at  the 


121 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

beginning  of  study  are  dead  at  the  end  ; 
but  to  those  in  whom  the  instinct  of 
scholarship  is  developed  there  comes  a 
day  when  Virgil  lives  as  truly  as  he  lived 
in  Dante's  imagination,  and,  like  Boc- 
caccio, they  light  a  fire  at  his  tomb  which 
years  do  not  quench. 

Who  that  has  ever  gone  through  the 
experience  will  forget  the  hour  when  he 
discovered  the  Greeks  in  Homer's  pages, 
and  felt  for  the  first  time  the  grand  im- 
pulse of  that  noble  race  stir  his  blood 
and  fill  his  brain  with  the  far-reaching 
aspiration  for  a  life  as  rich  as  theirs  in 
beauty,  freedom,  and  strength!  It  is 
told  of  an  English  scholar  that  he  de- 
voted his  winters  to  the  "  Iliad"  and  his 
summers  to  the  "  Odyssey,"  reading 
each  several  times  every  year.  One 
could  hardly  reconcile  such  self-indul- 
gence with  the  claims  of  to-day  on  every 
man's  time  and  strength  ;  but  I  have  no 
doubt  all  Grecians  have  a  secret  envy  for 
such  a  career.  The  Old-World  charm 
of  the  "  Odyssey  "  is  one  of  the  priceless 

122 


Under  College  Elms 

possessions  of  every  fresh  student,  and  to 
feel  it  for  the  first  time  is  like  discovering 
the  sea  anew.  It  is,  indeed,  the  Epic  of 
the  Sea ;  the  only  poem  in  all  literature 
which  gives  the  breadth,  the  movement, 
the  mighty  sweep  of  sky  belted  with  stars, 
the  unspeakable  splendours  of  sunrise  and 
sunset,  — the  grand,  free  life  of  the  sea. 
I  would  place  the  "  Odyssey  "  in  every 
collection  of  modern  books  for  the  tonic 
quality  that  is  in  it.  The  dash  of  wave 
and  the  roar  of  wind  play  havoc  with  our 
melancholy,  and  fill  us  with  shame  that 
we  have  so  much  as  asked  the  question, 
"  Is  Life  Worth  Living  ?  " 

There  is  no  grander  entrance  gate  to 
the  great  world  of  thought  than  the  Greek 
Literature.  Universities  are  broaden- 
ing their  courses  to  meet  the  multiplied 
demands  of  modern  knowledge  and  to 
fit  men  for  the  varied  pursuits  of  modern 
life,  but  for  those  who  desire  familiarity 
with  human  life  in  its  broadest  expression, 
and  especially  for  those  who  seek  famil- 
iarity with  the  literary  spirit  and  mastery 
123 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

of  the  literary  art,  Greek  must  hold  its 
place  in   the  curriculum  to  the  end  of 
time.      This   implies   no  disparagement 
of  our  own  literature  —  a  literature  which 
spreads  its  dome  over  a  wider  world  of 
feeling  and  knowledge   than   the  Greek 
ever  saw  within  the  horizon  of  his  expe- 
rience; but  the  Greek,  like  the  Hebrew, 
will    remain    to     the     latest     generation 
among  the  great  teachers  of  men.     He 
was  born  into  the  first  rank  among  na- 
tions ;    he   had  an    eye  quick  to  see,  a 
mind  clear,  open,  and  bold  to  grasp  facts, 
set  them  in  order,  and  generalise    their 
law;  an  instinct  for  art  that  turned  all 
his  observation  and  thinking  into  litera- 
ture.    Whether  he  looked  at  the  world 
about  him  or  fixed    his  gaze  upon   his 
own  nature,  his  insight  was  from  the  very 
beginning  so  direct,  so  commanding,  so 
perfectly  allied    with    beauty,    that    his 
speculations  became  philosophy  and  his 
emotions  poetry.     There  was  hardly  any 
aspect  of  life  which  he  did  not  see,  no 
question  which  he  did  not  ask,  and  few 
124 


Under  College  Elms 

which  he  failed  to  answer  with  more  or 
less  of  truth.  He  walked  through  an 
untrodden  world  of  sights  and  sounds, 
and  reproduced  the  vast  circle  of  his 
life  in  a  literature  to  which  men  will 
look  as  long  as  the  world  stands  for 
models  of  sweetness,  beauty,  and  power. 
Greek  literature  holds  its  place,  not  be- 
cause scholars  have  combined  to  keep 
alive  its  traditions  and  make  familiarity 
with  it  the  bond  of  the  fellowship  of 
culture,  but  because  it  is  the  faithful  re- 
flection of  the  life  of  a  race  who  faced 
the  world  on  all  sides  with  masterly  in- 
telligence and  power.  It  is  a  liberal 
education  to  have  travelled  from  JEs- 
chylus,  with  his  almost  Asiatic  splendour 
of  imagination,  to  Theocritus,  under 
whose  exquisite  touch  the  soft  outlines 
of  Sicilian  life  took  on  idyllic  loveliness  ! 
And  then  there  were  those  unbroken 
winter  evenings,  when  one  began  really 
to  know  the  great  modern  masters  of 
literature.  What  would  one  not  give  to 
have  them  back  again,  with  their  undis- 
"5 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

turbed  hours  ending  only  when  the  fire 
or  the  lamp  gave  out !  Those  were 
nights  of  royal  fellowships,  of  introduc- 
tion into  the  noblest  society  the  world 
has  ever  known,  and  it  is  the  recollection 
of  this  companionship  which  gives  those 
days  under  college  roofs  a  unique  and 
perennial  charm.  Then  first  the  spirit 
of  our  own  race  was  revealed  to  us  in 
Chaucer,  Shakespeare,  and  Milton ;  then 
first  we  thrilled  to  that  music  which  has 
never  faltered  since  Caedmon  found  his 
voice  in  answer  to  the  heavenly  vision. 
There  are  days  which  will  always  have  a 
place  by  themselves  in  our  memory, 
nights  whose  stars  have  never  set,  be- 
cause they  brought  us  face  to  face  with 
some  great  soul,  and  struck  into  life  in 
an  instant  some  new  and  mighty  mean- 
ing. The  ferment  of  soul  which  Hazlitt 
describes  on  the  night  when  he  walked 
home  from  his  first  talk  with  Coleridge 
is  no  exceptional  experience ;  it  comes  to 
most  young  men  who  are  susceptible  to 
the  influence  of  great  thoughts  coming 
126 


Under  College  Elms 

for  the  first  time  into  consciousness.  A 
lonely  country  road  comes  into  view  as 
I  write  these  words,  and  over  it  the 
heavens  bend  with  a  new  and  marvellous 
splendour,  because  the  boy  who  walked 
along  its  winding  course  had  just  finished 
for  the  first  time,  and  in  a  perfect  tumult 
of  soul,  Schiller's  "  Robbers  ;  "  it  was  the 
power  of  a  great  master,  felt  through  his 
crudest  work,  that  filled  the  night  with 
such  magical  influences. 

The  hours  in  which  we  come  in  con- 
tact with  great  souls  are  always  memora- 
ble in  our  history,  often  the  crises  in  our 
intellectual  life ;  it  is  the  recollection  of 
such  hours  that  gives  those  bending 
elms  an  imperishable  charm,  and  lends 
to  this  landscape  a  deathless  interest 


127 


Chapter  XVI 

A  Summer  Morning 

I  DO  not  understand  how  any  one 
who  has  watched  the  breaking  of  a 
summer  day  can  question  the  noblest 
faiths  of  man.  William  Blake,  with 
that  integrity  of  insight  which  is  often 
the  possession  of  the  true  mystic,  de- 
clared that  when  he  was  asked  if  he  saw 
anything  more  in  a  sunset  than  a  round 
disk  of  fire,  he  could  only  answer  that 
he  saw  an  innumerable  company  of  the 
heavenly  host  crying  "  Holy,  Holy, 
Holy  Lord  God  Almighty  !  "  The  birth 
of  a  day  is  a  diviner  miracle  even  than 
its  death.  They  were  true  poets  who 
wrote  the  old  Vedic  hymns  and  sang 
those  wonderful  adorations  when  the  last 
stars  were  fading  in  the  splendour  of  the 
dawn.  Beside  the  glory  of  the  sun's 
128 


A  Summer  Morning 

announcement  all  royal  progresses  are 
tawdry  and  mean ;  beside  the  beauty  of 
the  dawn,  slowly  unveiling  the  day  while 
,  the  heavens  wait  in  silent  worship,  all 
poetry  is  idle  and  empty.  It  is  the 
divinest  of  all  the  visible  processes  of 
Nature,  and  the  sublimest  of  all  her 
marvellous  symbolism. 

On  such  a  morning  as  this,  twelve 
years  ago,  Amiel  wrote  in  his  diary  : 
"  The  whole  atmosphere  has  a  luminous 
serenity,  a  limpid  clearness.  The  islands 
are  like  swans  swimming  in  a  golden 
stream.  Peace,  splendour,  boundless 
space!  ...  I  long  to  catch  the  wild 
bird,  happiness,  and  tame  it.  These 
mornings  impress  me  indescribably. 
They  intoxicate  me,  they  carry  me  away. 
I  feel  beguiled  out  of  myself,  dissolved 
in  sunbeams,  breezes,  perfumes,  and  sud- 
den impulses  of  joy.  And  yet  all  the 
time  I  pine  for  I  know  not  what  in- 
tangible Eden."  In  these  few  words 
this  master  of  poetic  meditation  suggests 
without  expressing  the  indescribable  im- 

9  129 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

pression   which    a   summer   carries   into 
every  sensitive  nature. 

Last  night  the  world  was  sorrowful, 
worn,  and  dulled ;  but  lo  !  the  new  day 
has  but  touched  it  and  all  the  invisible 
choirs  are  heard  again  ;  the  old  hope  re- 
turns like  a  tide,  and  out  of  the  unseen 
depths  a  new  life  breaks  soundless  upon 
the  unseen  shores  and  sends  its  hid- 
den currents  into  every  dried  and  empty 
channel  and  pool.  The  worn  old  world 
has  been  created  anew,  and  God  has 
spoken  again  the  word  out  of  which  all 
living  things  grow.  In  the  silence  and 
peace  and  freshness  of  this  morning  hour 
one  feels  the  inspiration  of  nature  as  a 
direct  and  personal  gift ;  the  inbreathing, 
which  has  renewed  the  beauty  and  fer- 
tility about  him,  renews  his  spirit  also. 
He  responds  to  the  fresh  and  invigorat- 
ing atmosphere  with  a  soul  sensitive  with 
sudden  return  of  zest  to  every  beautiful 
sight  and  sound.  No  longer  an  alien  in 
this  world  which  has  never  known  hu- 
man care  and  regret,  he  enters  by  right 
130 


A  Summer  Morning 

of  citizenship  into  all  its  privileges  of 
unwatched  freedom  and  unclouded  se- 
renity. One  is  not  absorbed  by  the 
glory  of  the  morning,  but  set  free  by  it. 
There  are  times  when  Nature  permits  no 
rivalry ;  she  claims  every  thought  and 
gives  herself  to  us  only  as  we  give  our- 
selves to  her.  She  effaces  us  and  takes 
complete  possession  of  our  souls.  Not 
so,  however,  does  she  usurp  the  throne 
of  our  own  personal  life  in  those  early 
hours  when  the  sun,  the  master  artist, 
whose  touch  has  coloured  every  leaf  and 
tinted  every  flower,  demands  her  adora- 
tion. Then  it  is,  perhaps,  that  she  turns 
her  thoughts  from  all  lesser  companion- 
ships and,  rapt  in  universal  worship,  suf- 
fers us  to  pass  and  repass  as  unnoticed 
as  the  idlers  in  the  cathedral  by  those 
who  kneel  at  the  chancel  rail. 

I  confess  I  never  find  myself  quite 
unmoved  in  this  sacred  hour,  announced 
only  by  the  stars  veiling  their  faces  and 
the  birds  breaking  the  silence  with  their 
tumultuous  song.  The  universal  faith 
13* 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

becomes  mine  also,  and  from  the  com- 
mon worship  I  am  not  debarred.  My 
thought  rises  whither  the  mists,  parted 
from  the  unseen  censers,  are  rising :  I 
feel  within  me  the  revival  of  aspirations 
and  faiths  that  were  fast  overclouding ; 
the  stir  of  old  hopes  is  in  my  heart ;  the 
thrill  of  old  purposes  is  in  my  soul. 
Once  more  Nature  is  serving  me  in  an 
hour  of  need;  serving  me  not  by  draw- 
ing me  to  herself,  but  by  setting  me  free 
from  a  world  that  was  beginning  to  mas- 
ter and  make  me  its  slave. 

Now  all  that  insensibly  growing  ser- 
vitude slips  from  me ;  once  more  I  am 
free  and  my  own.  The  inexhaustible 
life  that  is  behind  all  visible  things, 
constantly  flowing  in  upon  us  when 
we  keep  the  channels  open,  recreates 
whatever  was  noblest  and  truest  in  me. 
With  Nature,  I  believe ;  and  believing, 
I  also  share  in  the  universal  worship. 

Emerson  somewhere  says,  writing  about 
the  most  difficult  of  Plato's  dialogues, 
that  one  must  often  wait  long  for  the 
132 


A  Summer  Morning 

hour  when  one  is  strong  enough  to 
grapple  with  and  master  it,  but  sooner  or 
later  the  fitting  morning  will  come.  It 
is  the  morning  which  gives  us  faith  in  the 
most  arduous  achievements,  and  invig- 
orates us  to  undertake  them.  In  the 
morning  all  things  are  possible  because 
the  heavens  and  the  earth  are  so  visibly 
united  in  the  fellowship  of  common  life ; 
the  one  pouring  down  a  measureless  and 
penetrating  tide  of  vitality,  the  other 
eagerly,  worshipfully  receptive.  Nature 
has  no  more  inspiring  truth  for  us  than 
this  constant  and  complete  enfolding  of 
our  life  by  a  higher  and  vaster  life,  this 
unbroken  play  of  a  diviner  purpose  and 
force  through  us.  Nothing  is  lost,  noth- 
ing really  dies ;  all  things  are  conserved 
by  an  energy  which  transforms,  reorgan- 
ises, and  perpetuates  in  new  and  finer 
forms  all  visible  things.  The  silence  of 
winter  counterfeits  the  repose  of  death, 
but  it  is  not  even  a  pause  of  life ;  invis- 
ibly to  us  the  great  movement  goes  on 
in  the  earth  under  our  feet.  While  we 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

watch  by  our  household  fires,  the  unseen 
architects  are  planning  the  summer,  and 
the  sublime  march  of  the  stars  is  noise- 
lessly bringing  back  the  bloom  and  the 
perfume  that  seem  to  have  vanished  for- 
ever. Every  morning  restores  some- 
thing we  thought  lost,  recalls  some  charm 
that  seemed  to  have  escaped. 

In  all  noble  natures  there  is  an  inerad- 
icable idealism  which  constantly  inter- 
prets life  in  its  higher  aspects.  In  the 
dust  of  the  road  the  mountains  some- 
times disappear  from  our  vision,  but  we 
know  that  they  still  loom  in  undimin- 
ished  majesty  against  the  horizon ;  the 
gods  sometimes  hide  themselves,  but 
there  is  something  within  which  affirms 
that  we  shall  again  look  on  their  serene 
faces,  calm  amid  our  turbulence  and  un- 
changing amid  our  vicissitudes.  It  is 
this  heavenly  inheritance  of  insight  and 
faith  which  makes  Nature  so  divinely 
significant  to  us,  and  matches  all  its 
forms  and  phenomena  with  spiritual  real- 
ities not  to  be  taken  from  us  by  time  or 


A  Summer  Morning 

change  or  by  that  mysterious  angel  of 
the  last  great  transformation  which  we 
call  death.  The  morning  is  always  break- 
ing over  the  low  horizon  lines  of  some 
sea  or  continent ;  voices  of  birds  are 
always  "  carolling  against  the  gates  of 
day ; "  and  so,  through  unbroken  light 
and  song,  our  life  is  solemnly  and  sub- 
limely moved  onward  to  the  dawn  in 
which  all  the  faint  stars  of  our  hope  shall 
melt  into  the  eternal  day. 


Chapter  XVII 

A  Summer  Noon 

THE  stir  of  the  morning  has  given 
place  to  a  silence  broken  only  by 
the  shrill  whir  of  the  locust.  The  dis- 
tant shore  lines  that  ran  clear  and  white 
against  the  low  background  of  green 
have  become  dim  and  indistinct ;  all 
things  are  touched  by  a  soft  haze 
which  changes  the  sentiment  of  the 
landscape  from  movement  to  repose, 
from  swift  and  multitudinous  activity 
to  the  hush  of  sleep.  The  intense 
blue  of  the  morning  sky  is  dimmed 
and  the  great  masses  of  trees  are  mo- 
tionless. The  distant  harvest  fields 
where  the  rhythmic  lines  of  the  mow- 
ers have  moved  alert  and  harmonious 
through  the  morning  hours  are  deserted. 
On  earth  silence  and  rest,  and  in  the 
great  arch  of  the  sky  a  sea  of  light  so 
136 


A  Summer  Noon 

full  and  splendid  that  it  seems  almost  to 
dim  the  fiery  effluence  of  the  sun  itself. 
In  such  an  hour  one  stretches  himself 
under  the  trees,  and  in  a  moment  the 
spell  is  on  him,  and  he  cares  neither  to 
think  nor  act ;  he  rejoices  to  lose  him- 
self in  the  universal  repose  with  which 
Nature  refreshes  herself.  The  heat  of 
the  day  is  at  its  height,  but  for  an  hour 
the  burden  slips  from  the  shoulders  of 
care,  and  the  rest  comes  in  which  the 
gains  of  work  are  garnered. 

The  whir  of  the  locust  high  overhead, 
by  some  earlier  association,  always  recalls 
that  matchless  singer,  some  of  whose 
notes  Nature  has  never  regained  in  all 
these  later  years.  The  whir  of  the 
cicada  and  the  white  light  on  the  re- 
mote country  road  are  real  to  us  to- 
day, though  one  went  silent  and  the 
other  faded  out  of  Sicilian  skies  two 
thousand  years  and  more  ago,  because 
both  are  preserved  in  the  verse  of  The- 
ocritus. The  poet  was  something  more 
than  a  mere  observer  of  Nature,  and 
137 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

the  beautiful  repose  of  his  art  more  than 
the  native  grace  and  ease  of  one  to  whom 
life  meant  nothing  more  strenuous  than 
a  dream  of  a  blue  sea  and  fair  sky.  He 
had  known  the  din  of  the  crowded  street 
as  well  as  the  silence  of  the  country  road, 
the  forms  and  shows  of  a  royal  court  as 
well  as  the  simplicity  and  sincerity  of 
tangled  vines  and  gnarled  olives  on  the 
hillside.  He  had  seen,  with  those  eyes 
which  overlooked  nothing,  the  pomps 
and  vanities  of  power,  the  fret  and  fever 
of  ambition,  the  impotence  and  barren- 
ness of  much  of  that  activity  in  which 
multitudes  of  men  spend  their  lives 
under  the  delusion  that  mere  stir  and 
bustle  mean  progress  and  achievement. 
Out  of  Syracuse,  with  its  petty  court 
about  a  petty  tyrant,  Theocritus  had 
come  back  to  the  sea  and  the  sky  and 
the  hardy  pastoral  life  with  a  joy  which 
touches  some  of  his  lines  with  penetrat- 
ing tenderness.  Better  a  thousand  times 
for  him  and  for  us  the  long,  tranquil  days 
under  the  pine  and  the  olive  than  a  great 


A  Summer  Noon 

position  under  Hiero's  hand  and  the 
weary  intrigue  and  activity  which  made 
the  melancholy  semblance  of  a  success- 
ful life  for  men  less  wise  and  genuine. 
The  lines  which  the  hand  of  Theocritus 
has  left  on  the  past  are  few  and  marvel- 
lously delicate,  but  they  seem  to  gain  dis- 
tinctness from  the  remorseless  years  that 
have  almost  obliterated  the  features  of 
the  age  in  which  he  lived.  It  is  better 
to  see  clearly  one  or  two  things  in  life 
than  to  move  confused  and  blinded  in 
the  dust  of  an  impotent  activity ;  it  is 
better  to  hear  one  or  two  notes  sung  in 
the  overshadowing  trees  than  to  spend 
one's  years  amid  a  murmur  in  which 
nothing  is  distinctly  audible.  Theocri- 
tus, shunning  courts  and  cities,  sought 
to  assuage  the  pain  of  life  at  the  heart  of 
Nature,  and  did  not  seek  in  vain.  He 
gave  himself  calmly  and  sincerely  to  the 
sweet  and  natural  life  which  surrounded 
him,  and  in  his  tranquil  self-surrender 
he  gained,  unsuspecting,  the  immortality 
denied  his  eager  and  restless  cotempo- 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

raries.  Life  is  so  vast,  so  unspeakably 
rich,  that  to  have  reported  accurately 
one  swift  glimpse,  or  to  have  preserved 
the  melody  of  one  rarely  heard  note,  is 
to  have  mastered  a  part  of  the  secret  of 
the  immortals. 

Struggle  and  anguish  have  their  place 
in  every  genuine  life,  but  they  are  the 
stages  through  which  it  advances  to  a 
strength  which  is  full  of  repose.  The 
bursting  of  the  calyx  announces  the 
flower ;  but  the  beauty  of  the  perfect 
blossoming  obliterated  the  very  mem- 
ory of  its  earlier  growth.  The  climb 
upward  is  often  a  long  anguish,  but  the 
dust  and  weariness  are  forgotten  when 
once  the  eye  rests  on  the  vast  outlook. 
"  On  every  height  there  lies  repose  "  is 
the  sublime  declaration  of  one  who  had 
looked  into  most  things  deeper  than  his 
fellows,  and  had  learned  much  of  the 
profounder  processes  of  life.  Emerson 
long  ago  noted  that  even  in  action  the 
forms  of  the  Greek  heroes  are  always  in 
repose  ;  the  crudity  of  passion,  the  dis- 
140 


A  Summer  Noon 

tortmg  agony  of  half-mastered  purpose, 
are  lost  in  a  self-forgetfulness  which  bor- 
rows from  Olympus  something  of  the 
repose  of  the  gods.  The  sublime  calm 
which  imparts  to  great  works  of  art  a 
hint  of  eternity  is  born  of  complete  mas- 
tery of  life ;  all  the  stages  of  evolution 
have  been  accomplished,  the  whole  move- 
ment of  growth  has  been  fulfilled,  before 
the  hand  of  art  sets  the  seal  of  perfec- 
tion on  the  thing  that  is  done.  Shadow 
and  light,  heat  and  cold,  tempest  and 
quiet  days,  have  all  wrought  together 
before  the  blooming  of  the  flower  which 
in  its  perfect  grace  and  beauty  gives  no 
hint  of  its  troubled  growth.  As  the 
consummation  of  all  toil  and  struggle 
and  anguish,  there  comes  at  last  that 
deep  repose,  born  not  of  idleness  and 
indifference,  but  of  the  harmony  of  all 
the  elements  in  their  last  and  finest 
form. 

In  the  unbroken  silence  of  the  noon- 
tide such  thoughts  come  unbidden  and 
almost  unnoticed  to  one  who  surrenders 
141 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

himself  to  the  hour  and  the  scene.  Na- 
ture has  her  tempests,  but  her  harvests 
are  gathered  amid  the  calm  of  days  that 
often  seem  filled  with  the  peace  of 
heaven,  and  the  mighty  and  irresistible 
movement  of  her  life  goes  on  in  un- 
broken silence.  The  deepest  thoughts 
are  always  tranquillising,  the  greatest 
minds  are  always  full  of  calm,  the 
richest  lives  have  always  at  heart  an 
unshaken  repose. 


142 


Chapter  XVIII 

Eventide 

WHEN  the  shadows  lengthen  and 
the  landscape  becomes  indistinct, 
the  common  life  of  men  seems  to  touch 
the  life  of  Nature  most  closely  and  sym- 
pathetically. The  work  of  the  day  is  ac- 
complished ;  the  sense  of  things  to  be  done 
loses  its  painful  tension ;  the  mind,  freed 
from  the  cares  which  engrossed  it,  opens 
unconsciously  to  the  sights  and  sounds 
of  the  quiet  hour.  The  fields  are  given 
over  to  silence  and  the  gathering  dark- 
ness ;  the  roads  cease  to  be  thoroughfares 
of  toil ;  and  over  all  things  the  peace  of 
night  settles  like  an  unspoken  benedic- 
tion. To  the  most  preoccupied  there 
comes  a  consciousness  that  the  world 
has  changed,  and  that,  while  the  old 
framework  remains  intact,  a  strange  and 
transforming  beauty  has  touched  and 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

spiritualised  it.  At  eventide  one  feels 
the  soul  of  Nature  as  at  no  other  hour. 
Her  labours  have  ceased,  her  birds  are 
silent ;  she,  too,  rests,  and  in  ceasing  to 
do  for  us  she  gives  us  herself.  One  by 
one  the  silvery  points  of  light  break  out 
of  the  darkness  overhead,  and  the  faithful 
stars  look  down  on  the  little  earth  they 
have  watched  over  these  countless  years. 
The  very  names  they  bear  recall  the  van- 
ished races  who  waited  for  their  appearing 
and  counted  them  friends.  Now  that  the 
lamps  are  lighted  and  the  work  of  the 
day  is  done,  is  it  strange  that  the  vener- 
able mother,  whose  lullabies  have  soothed 
so  many  generations  into  sleep,  should 
herself  appeal  to  us  in  some  intimate  and 
personal  way  ? 

With  the  fading  out  of  shore  and  sea 
and  forest  line  something  deeper  and 
more  spiritual  rises  in  the  soul  as  the 
mists  rise  on  the  lowlands  and  over  the 
surface  of  the  waters.  We  surrender 
ourselves  to  it  silently,  reverently,  and  a 
change  no  less  subtle  and  penetrating  is 
144 


Eventide 

wrought  in  us.  Our  personal  ambitions, 
the  sharply  defined  aims  of  our  working 
hours,  the  very  limitations  of  our  indi- 
viduality, are  gone ;  we  lose  ourselves 
in  the  larger  life  of  which  we  are  part. 
After  the  fret  of  the  day  we  surrender 
ourselves  to  universal  life  as  the  bather, 
worn  and  spent,  gives  himself  to  the  sea. 
There  is  no  loss  of  personal  force,  but 
for  an  hour  the  individual  activity  is 
blended  with  the  universal  movement 
and  the  peace  and  quiet  of  infinity  calm 
and  restore  the  soul.  Meditation  comes 
with  eventide  as  naturally  as  action  with 
the  morning ;  our  soul  opens  to  the  soul 
of  Nature,  and  we  discover  anew  that  we 
are  one.  In  the  noblest  passage  in  Latin 
poetry  Lucretius  invokes  the  universal 
spirit  of  Nature,  and  identifies  it  with  the 
creative  force  which  impels  the  stars  and 
summons  the  flowers  to  strew  them- 
selves in  the  path  of  the  sun.  There  is 
nothing  so  refreshing,  so  reinvigorating, 
as  fresh  contact  with  the  fountain  whence 
all  visible  life  flows,  as  a  renewed  sense 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

of  oneness  with  the  mighty  appearance 
of  things  in  which  we  live.  Now  that 
all  outlines  are  softened,  all  distinctive 
features  are  lost,  Nature  loses  its  materi- 
alism, and  becomes  to  our  thought  the 
vast,  silent,  unbroken  flow  of  force  which 
the  later  science  has  substituted  for  an 
earlier  and  cruder  conception.  And  this 
invisible  stream  leads  us  back,  as  our 
thoughts  unconsciously  follow  it,  to  One 
whose  thought  it  is  and  whose  mind 
shares  with  our  mind  something  of  the 
unsearchable  mystery  of  its  purpose  and 
nature. 

Some  one  has  said  that  a  man  is  great 
rather  by  reason  of  his  unconscious 
thought  than  by  reason  of  his  deliberate 
and  self-directed  thinking.  Released  from 
meditation  on  definite  and  special  themes, 
the  thought  of  a  great  man  instinctively 
returns  to  the  mystery  of  life.  No  poet 
creates  a  Hamlet  unless  he  has  brooded 
long  and  almost  unconsciously  on  the 
deeper  things  that  make  up  the  inner 
life  ;  such  a  figure,  forever  externalising 
146 


Eventide 

the  profounder  and  more  obscure  phases 
of  being,  is  born  of  secret  and  habitual 
contact  with  the  deepest  experiences  and 
the  most  fundamental  problems.  The 
mind  of  a  Shakespeare  must  often,  for- 
saking the  busy  world  of  actuality,  med- 
itate in  the  twilight  which  seems  to 
release  the  soul  of  things  seen,  and,  veil- 
ing the  actual,  reveal  the  realities  of 
existence. 

Revery  becomes  of  the  highest  im- 
portance when  it  substitutes  for  definite 
thinking  that  deep  and  silent  meditation 
in  which  alone  the  soul  comes  to  know 
itself  and  pierces  the  wonderful  move- 
ment of  things  about  it  to  its  source 
and  principle.  One  of  Amiel's  magical 
phrases  is  that  in  which  he  describes 
revery  as  the  Sunday  of  the  soul.  Toil 
over,  care  banished,  the  world  forgotten, 
one  communes  with  that  which  is  eternal. 
In  the  long  course  of  centuries  the  forests 
are  as  short-lived  as  the  flowers  ;  all  visi- 
ble forms  are  but  momentary  expressions 
of  the  creative  force.  In  the  work  of 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

the  greatest  mind  all  spoken  and  written 
thoughts  are  but  partial  and  passing 
utterances  of  a  life  of  whose  volume  and 
movement  they  afford  only  half-compre- 
hended hints.  After  a  Shakespeare  has 
written  thirty  immortal  plays  he  must 
still  feel  that  what  was  deepest  in  him 
is  unuttered.  There  is  that  below  all 
expression  of  life  which  remains  forever 
unspoken  and  unspeakable ;  it  is  ours, 
but  we  cannot  share  it  with  others ;  we 
drop  our  plummets  into  its  depths  in 
vain.  It  is  deeper  than  our  thought, 
and  it  is  only  at  rare  moments,  when  we 
surrender  ourselves  to  ourselves,  that 
the  sense  of  what  it  contains  and  means 
fills  us  with  a  sudden  and  overpowering 
consciousness  of  immortality.  Out  of 
this  deeper  life  all  great  thoughts  rise 
into  consciousness,  losing  much  by  im- 
prisonment in  any  form  of  speech,  but 
still  bringing  with  them  indubitable  evi- 
dence of  their  more  than  royal  birth. 
From  time  to  time,  like  the  elder  race 
of  prophets,  they  enter  into  our  speech 
148 


Eventide 

and  renew  the  fading  sense  of  the  di- 
vinity of  life,  and  so,  through  individual 
souls,  the  deeper  truths  are  retold  from 
generation  to  generation. 

As  one  meditates  in  this  evening  hour, 
the  darkness  has  gathered  over  the  world 
and  folded  it  out  of  sight.  The  few 
faint  stars  have  become  a  shining  host, 
and  the  immeasurable  heavens  have  sub- 
stituted for  the  near  and  familiar  beauty 
of  the  earth  their  own  sublime  and  awful 
commingling  of  unsearchable  darkness 
and  unquenchable  light.  So  in  every 
human  life  the  near  and  the  familiar  is 
overarched  by  infinity  and  eternity. 


149 


Chapter  XIX 

The  Turn  of  the  Tide 

FOR  days  past  there  have  been  in- 
tangible hints  of  change  in  earth 
and  air;  the  birds  are  silent,  and  the 
universal  strident  note  of  insect  life 
makes  more  musical  to  memory  the 
melodies  of  the  earlier  season.  The 
sense  of  overflowing  vitality  which  per- 
vaded all  things  a  few  days  ago,  when 
the  tide  was  at  the  flood,  has  gone ;  the 
tide  has  turned,  and  already  one  sees  the 
receding  movement  of  the  ebb.  Through 
all  the  vanished  months  of  flower  and 
song,  one's  thought  has  travelled  fast 
upon  the  advancing  march  of  summer, 
trying  to  keep  pace  with  it  as  it  pushed 
its  fragrant  conquest  northward ;  to-day 
there  is  a  brief  interval  of  pause  before 
the  same  thought,  following  the  sun- 
shine, turns  south  again,  and  seeks  the 


The  Turn  of  the  Tide 

tropics.  A  little  later  the  spell  of  an 
indescribable  peace  will  rest  upon  the 
earth,  but  a  peace  that  will  be  but  a 
brief  truce  between  elements  soon  to 
close  in  struggle  again.  To-day,  how- 
ever, one  feels  the  repose  of  a  finished 
work  before  the  first  mellow  touch  of 
decay  has  come.  The  full,  rich  foliage 
still  shelters  the  paths  upon  which  the 
leaves  have  not  yet  fallen ;  the  meadows 
are  green ;  the  skies  soft  and  benignant. 
The  conquest  of  summer  is  still  intact, 
but  here  and  there  one  sees  slight  but 
unmistakable  evidence  that  the  garrison, 
under  cover  of  night,  is  beginning  its 
long  retreat.  In  such  a  moment  one 
feels  a  sudden  sense  of  loneliness,  as  if 
a  friend  were  secretly  preparing  to  desert 
one  to  his  foes. 

In  this  pause  of  the  season  one  finds 
the  subtle  beauty  and  completeness  of 
the  summer  growing  upon  him  more 
and  more.  While  the  work  was  going 
forward,  there  was  such  profound  interest 
in  the  process  that  one  watched  the  turn 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

and  direction  of  the  chisel  rather  than  the 
surface  of  the  marble  slowly  answering, 
line  by  line,  the  overmastering  thought ; 
but  now  that  the  months  of  toil  are  past, 
and  all  the  implements  of  labour  are  cast 
aside,  the  finished  work  absorbs  all 
thought  and  fills  all  imaginations.  So 
vast  is  it,  and  on  such  a  scale  of  magni- 
tude, that  one  hardly  saw  before  the 
delicacy  and  exquisite  adjustment  of 
parts,  the  marvellous  art  that  framed  the 
smallest  leaf  and  touched  the  vagrant 
wild  flower  still  blooming  on  the  edges 
of  the  woodland.  It  is,  after  all,  when 
the  great  festival  days  are  over  and  the 
thronging  crowds  have  gone,  that  the 
true  worshipper  finds  the  temple  beau- 
tiful with  the  highest  visions  of  worship, 
and  in  the  silence  of  deserted  aisles  and 
shrines  sees  with  new  wonder  the  work- 
manship of  the  Deity.  For  all  such 
this  is  the  most  solemn  of  all  the  re- 
curring Sabbaths  of  the  year ;  the  hush 
at  noonday  and  at  even  is  itself  an  un- 
spoken prayer.  The  moment  of  com- 


The  Turn  of  the  Tide 

pietion  in  the  history  of  any  great  work 
is  always  sacred.  When  the  noise  and 
dust  of  the  working  days  are  gone,  the 
great  illuminating  thought  shines  out 
unobscured ;  and  in  the  perception  of 
this  universal  element,  which  on  the 
instant  wins  recognition  from  every 
mind,  the  personal  element  vanishes ; 
the  mere  skill  of  the  workman  is  for- 
gotten in  the  new  revelation  of  soul 
which  it  has  given  the  world.  For  the 
same  reason  Nature  takes  on  in  these 
few  and  peaceful  days  a  spiritual  aspect, 
and  the  most  careless  finds  himself 
touched,  perhaps  saddened,  he  knows 
not  how  or  why. 

Now  again  is  the  old  mystery  and 
deep  secret  of  life  forced  upon  thought : 
"  Except  a  grain  of  wheat  fall  into  the 
earth  and  die,  it  abideth  by  itself  alone ; 
but  if  it  die,  it  beareth  much  fruit." 
When  the  tide  was  at  the  flood  it  was 
enough  to  breathe  the  air  and  listen  to 
the  magical  music  of  advancing  life ; 
but  now,  when  the  tide  begins  to  recede 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

and  leave  the  vast  shores  bare  and  silent, 
one  must  think,  whether  he  will  or  not. 
Nature,  that  was  careless  poet,  flower- 
crowned  and  buoyant  with  the  promise 
of  eternal  youth,  turns  teacher,  and  will 
not  suffer  us  to  escape  the  deeper  truths, 
the  more  searching  and  awful  lessons. 
As  the  physical  falls  away  the  spiritual 
comes  into  clear  and  compelling  distinct- 
ness. Who  that  goes  abroad  in  these 
quiet  days,  and  feels  the  subtle  change 
from  the  grosser  to  the  ethereal  which 
pervades  the  very  air,  can  escape  the 
threefold  thought  of  Life,  Death,  and 
Immortality  ? 

The  silence  that  has  already  fallen 
upon  the  jubilant  voices  of  summer  will 
extend  and  deepen  day  by  day  until  even 
the  thoughtless  babbling  of  the  brooks 
ceases  and  the  hush  becomes  universal. 
The  earth,  that  a  little  time  ago  was  pro- 
ducing such  an  endless  variety  of  forms 
of  life  and  beauty,  will  give  birth  to  a 
myriad  thoughts,  deep,  spiritual,  and 
far-reaching ;  translating  into  the  lan- 


The  Turn  of  the  Tide 

guage  of  spirit  the  vast  movement  of 
the  year,  and  completing  its  mysterious 
cycle  with  a  vision  of  the  sublime  ends 
for  which  Nature  stands,  and  to  the 
consummation  of  which  all  things  are 
borne  forward.  And  when  the  time  is 
ripe  there  will  come  a  transformation 
like  the  descent  of  the  heavens  upon 
the  earth,  flooding  the  dying  world  with 
unspeakable  splendours ;  the  sunset 
which  closes  the  long  summer  day  and 
leaves  through  the  night  of  winter  the 
fadeless  promise  of  another  dawn. 


Chapter  XX 

A  Memory  of  Summer 

IN  the  pine  woods,  or  floating  under 
overhanging  branches  on  the  silent 
and  almost  motionless  river,  I  have  had 
visions  of  my  study  fire  during  the  sum- 
mer months,  and,  now  that  I  find  myself 
once  more  within  the  cheerful  circle  of 
its  glow,  the  time  that  has  passed  since 
it  was  lighted  for  the  last  time  in  the 
spring  seems  like  a  long,  delightful 
dream.  I  recall  those  charming  days, 
some  of  them  full  of  silence  and  repose 
from  dawn  to  sunset,  some  of  them  ripe 
with  effort  and  adventure,  with  a  keen 
delight  in  the  feeling  of  possession  which 
comes  with  them  ;  they  were  brief,  they 
have  gone,  but  they  are  mine  forever. 
The  beauty  and  freshness  that  touched 
them  morning  after  morning  as  the  dew 
touches  the  flower  are  henceforth  a  part 
156 


A  Memory  of  Summer 

of  my  life ;  they  have  entered  into  my 
soul  as  their  light  and  heat  entered  into 
the  ripening  fruits  and  grains.  I  have 
come  back  to  my  friendly  fire  richer  and 
wiser  for  my  absence  from  its  cheer  and 
warmth ;  my  life  has  been  renewed  at 
those  ancient  sources  whence  all  our 
knowledge  has  come ;  I  have  felt  again 
the  solitude  and  sanctity  of  those  ven- 
erable shades  where  the  voices  of  the 
oracles  were  once  heard,  and  fleeting 
glimpses  of  shy  divinities  made  a  mo- 
mentary splendour  in  the  dusky  depths. 
Wordsworth's  sonnets  are  always 
within  reach  of  those  who  never  get 
beyond  the  compelling  voice  of  nature, 
and  who  are  continually  returning  to  her 
with  a  sense  of  loss  and  decline  after 
every  wandering.  As  I  take  up  the 
little,  well-worn  book,  it  opens  of  itself 
at  a  familiar  page,  and  I  read  once  more 
that  sonnet  which  comes  to  one  at 
times  with  an  unspeakable  pathos  in  its 
lines — a  sense  of  permanent  alienation 
and  loss : 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us  ;  late  and  soon, 

Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers  ; 

Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours  ; 

We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon. 

This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon, 

The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 

And  are  up-gathered  now  like  springing  flowers  — • 

For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune. 

It  moves  us  not.      Great  God  !  I'd  rather  be 

A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn, 

So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn ; 

Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea, 

Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

Almost  unconsciously  I  repeat  these 
lines  aloud,  and  straightway  the  fire, 
breaking  into  flame  where  it  has  been 
only  glowing  before,  answers  them  with 
a  sudden  outburst  of  heat  and  light  that 
make  a  brief  summer  in  my  study. 
When  one  goes  back  to  the  woods 
and  streams  after  long  separation  and 
absorption  in  books  and  affairs,  he  misses 
something  which  once  thrilled  and  in- 
spired him.  The  meadows  are  un- 
changed, but  the  light  that  touched  them 
158 


A  Memory  of  Summer 

illusively,  but  with  a  lasting  and  incom- 
municable beauty,  is  gone ;  the  wood- 
lands are  dim  and  shadowy  as  of  old, 
but  they  are  vacant  of  the  presence  that 
once  filled  them.  There  is  something 
painfully  disheartening  in  coming  back  to 
Nature  and  finding  one's  self  thus  unwel- 
comed  and  uncared  for,  and  in  the  first 
moment  of  disappointment  an  unspoken 
accusation  of  change  and  coldness  lies  in 
the  heart.  The  change  is  not  in  Na- 
ture, however  ;  it  is  in  ourselves.  "  The 
world  is  too  much  with  us."  Not  until 
its  strife  and  tumult  fade  into  distance 
and  memory  will  those  finer  senses, 
dulled  by  contact  with  a  meaner  life, 
restore  that  which  we  have  lost.  After 
a  little  some  such  thought  as  this  comes 
to  us,  and  day  after  day  we  haunt  the 
silent  streams  and  the  secret  places  of 
the  forest ;  waiting,  watching,  uncon- 
sciously bringing  ourselves  once  more 
into  harmony  with  the  great,  rich  world 
around  us,  we  forget  the  tumult  out  of 
which  we  have  come,  a  deep  peace  pos- 
J59 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

sesses  us,  and  in  its  unbroken  quietness 
the  old  sights  and  sounds  return  again. 
Youth,  faith,  hope,  and  love  spring  again 
out  of  a  soil  which  had  begun  to  deny 
them  sustenance ;  old  dreams  mingle 
with  our  waking  hours ;  the  old-time 
channels  of  joy,  long  silent  and  bare, 
overflow  with  streams  that  restore  a 
lost  world  of  beauty  in  our  souls.  We 
have  come  back  to  Nature,  and  she 
has  not  denied  us,  in  spite  of  our 
disloyalty. 

I  know  of  nothing  more  full  of  deep 
delight  than  this  return  of  the  old  com- 
panionship, this  restoration  of  the  old 
intimacy.  How  much  there  is  to  recall, 
how  many  confidences  there  are  to  be 
exchanged !  The  days  are  not  long 
enough  for  all  we  would  say  and  hear. 
Such  hours  come  in  the  pine  woods  ; 
hours  so  full  of  the  strange  silence  of  the 
place,  so  unbroken  by  customary  habits 
and  thoughts,  that  no  dial  could  divide 
into  fragments  a  day  that  was  one  long 
unbroken  spell  of  wonder  and  delight. 
160 


A  Memory  of  Summer 

So  remote  seemed  all  human  life  that 
even  memory  turned  from  it  and  lost 
herself  in  silent  meditation ;  so  vast  and 
mysterious  was  the  life  of  Nature  that 
the  past  and  the  future  seemed  part  of 
the  changeless  present.  The  light  fell 
soft  and  dim  through  the  thickly  woven 
branches  and  among  the  densely  clus- 
tered trunks ;  underneath,  the  deep 
masses  of  pine  needles  and  the  rich  moss 
spread  a  carpet  on  which  the  heaviest 
footfall  left  the  silence  unbroken.  It  was 
a  place  of  dreams  and  mysteries. 

Heed  the  old  oracles, 

Ponder  my  spells  ; 
Song  wakes  in  my  pinnacles 

When  the  wind  swells. 
Soundeth  the  prophetic  wind, 
The  shadows  shake  on  the  rock  behind, 
And  the  countless  leaves  of  the  pine  are  strings 
Tuned  to  the  lay  the  wood-god  sings. 

Hearken  !  hearken  ! 
If  thou  wouldst  know  the  mystic  song 
Chanted  when  the  sphere  was  young, 
Aloft,  abroad,  the  paean  swells  ; 
O  wise  man  !  hear'st  thou  half  it  tells  ? 

"  161 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

Sitting  there,  with  the  deep  peace  of 
the  place  sinking  into  the  soul,  the  soli- 
tude was  full  of  companionship ;  the 
very  silence  seemed  to  give  Nature  a 
tone  more  commanding,  an  accent  more 
thrilling.  At  intervals  the  gusts  of  wind 
reaching  the  borders  of  the  wood  filled 
the  air  with  distant  murmurs  which 
widened,  deepened,  approached,  until 
they  broke  into  a  great  wave  of  sound 
overhead,  and  then,  receding,  died  in 
fainter  and  ever  fainter  sounds.  There 
was  something  in  this  sudden  and  unfa- 
miliar roar  of  the  pines  that  hinted  at  its 
kinship  with  the  roar  of  the  sea ;  but  it 
had  a  different  tone.  Waste  and  track- 
less solitudes  and  death  are  in  the  roar 
of  the  sea;  remoteness,  untroubled  cen- 
turies of  silence,  the  strange  alien  memo- 
ries of  woodland  life,  are  in  the  roar  of 
the  pines.  The  forgotten  ages  of  an 
immemorial  past  seem  to  have  become 
audible  in  it,  and  to  speak  of  things 
which  had  ceased  to  exist  before  human 
speech  was  born ;  things  which  lie  at 
162 


A  Memory  of  Summer 

the  roots  of  instinct  rather  than  within 
the  recollection  of  thought.  The  pines 
only  murmur,  but  the  secret  which  they 
guard  so  well  is  mine  as  well  as  theirs ; 
I  am  no  alien  in  this  secluded  world ; 
my  citizenship  is  here  no  less  than  in 
that  other  world  to  which  I  shall  return, 
but  to  which  I  shall  never  wholly  belong. 
The  most  solitary  moods  of  Nature  are 
not  incommunicable  ;  they  may  be  shared 
by  those  who  can  forget  themselves  and 
hold  their  minds  open  to  the  elusive  but 
potent  influences  of  the  forest.  He 
who  can  escape  the  prison  of  habit  and 
work  and  routine  can  say  with  Emerson  : 

When  I  am  stretched  beneath  the  pines, 
When  the  evening  star  so  holy  shines, 
I  laugh  at  the  lore  and  the  pride  of  man, 
At  the  sophist  schools  and  the  learned  clan  ; 
For  what  are  they  all,  in  their  high  conceit, 
When  man  in  the  bush  with  God  may  meet  ? 


163 


IN    THE   FOREST   OF  ARDEN 

Go  with  me  :  if  you  like,  upon  report, 
The  soil,  the  profit,  and  this  kind  of  life, 
I  will  your  very  faithful  factor  be, 
And  buy  it  with  your  gold  right  suddenly. 


1*5 


"AND  I  FOR  ROSALIND" 


166 


Chapter  XXI 

In  the  Forest  of Arden 


Under  the  greenwood  tree, 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  turn  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither. 

ROSALIND    had  just  laid  a  spray 
of  apple  blossoms   on  the  study 
table. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "when  shall  we  start? " 
"  To-morrow." 

Rosalind  has  a  habit  of  swift  decision 
when  she  has  settled  a  question  in  her 
own  mind,  and  I  was  not  surprised  when 
she  replied  with  a  single  decisive  word. 
But  she  also  has  a  habit  of  making  thor- 
ough preparation  for  any  undertaking, 
and  now  she  was  quietly  proposing  to  go 
off  for  the  summer  the  very  next  day,  and 
167 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

not  a  trunk  was  packed,  not  a  seat  se- 
cured in  any  train,  not  a  movement  made 
toward  any  winding  up  of  household 
affairs.  I  had  great  faith  in  her  ability 
to  execute  her  plans  with  celerity,  but  I 
doubted  whether  she  could  be  ready  to 
turn  the  key  in  the  door,  bid  farewell  to 
the  milkman  and  the  butcher,  and  start 
the  very  next  day  for  the  Forest  of  Ar- 
den.  For  several  past  seasons  we  had 
planned  this  bold  excursion  into  a 
country  which  few  persons  have  seemed 
to  know  much  about  since  the  day  when 
a  poet  of  great  fame,  familiar  with  many 
strange  climes  and  peoples,  found  his 
way  thither  and  shared  the  golden  for- 
tune of  his  journey  with  all  the  world. 
Winter  after  winter  before  the  study  fire, 
we  had  made  merry  plans  for  this  trip 
into  the  magical  forest ;  we  had  discussed 
the  best  methods  of  travelling  where  no 
roads  led ;  we  had  enjoyed  in  anticipa- 
tion the  surmises  of  our  neighbours  con- 
cerning our  unexplained  absence,  and  the 
delightful  mystery  which  would  always 
1 68 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

linger  about  us  when  we  had  returned, 
with  memories  of  a  landscape  which  no 
eyes  but  ours  had  seen  these  many  years, 
and  of  rare  and  original  people  whose 
voices  had  been  silent  in  common  speech 
so  many  generations  that  only  a  few 
dreamers  like  ourselves  even  remem- 
bered that  they  had  ever  spoken.  We 
had  looked  along  the  library  shelves  for 
the  books  we  should  take  with  us,  until 
we  remembered  that  in  that  country  there 
were  books  in  the  running  streams. 
Rosalind  had  gone  so  far  as  to  lay  aside 
a  certain  volume  of  sermons  whose  aspir- 
ing note  had  more  than  once  made  music 
of  the  momentary  discords  of  her  life ; 
but  I  reminded  her  that  such  a  work 
would  be  strangely  out  of  place  in  a 
forest  where  there  were  sermons  in  stones. 
Finally  we  had  decided  to  leave  books 
behind  and  go  free-minded  as  well  as 
free-hearted.  It  had  been  a  serious  ques- 
tion how  much  and  what  apparel  we 
should  take  with  us,  and  that  point  was 
still  unsettled  when  the  apple  trees  came 
169 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

to  their  blossoming.  It  is  a  theory  of 
mine  that  the  chief  delight  of  a  vacation 
from  one's  usual  occupations  is  freedom 
from  the  tyranny  of  plans  and  dates,  and 
thus  much  Rosalind  had  conceded  to 
me. 

There  had  been  an  irresistible  charm 
in  the  very  secrecy  which  protected  our 
adventure  from  the  curious  and  unsym- 
pathetic comment  of  the  world.  We 
found  endless  pleasure  in  imagining 
what  this  and  that  good  neighbour  of  ours 
would  say  about  the  folly  of  leaving 
a  comfortable  house,  good  beds,  and  a 
well-stocked  larder  for  the  hard  fare 
and  uncertain  shelter  of  a  strange  for- 
est. "  For  my  part,"  we  gleefully  heard 
Mrs.  Grundy  declare,  —  "for  my  part,  I 
cannot  understand  why  two  people  old 
enough  to  know  better  should  make 
tramps  of  themselves  and  go  rambling 
about  a  piece  of  woods  that  nobody  ever 
heard  of  in  the  heat  of  the  midsummer." 
Poor  Mrs.  Grundy  !  We  could  well 
afford  to  laugh  merrily  at  her  scornful 
170 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

expostulations  ;  for  while  she  was  repeat- 
ing platitudes  to  overdressed  and  unin- 
teresting people  at  Oldport,  we  should 
be  making  sunny  play  of  life  with  men 
and  women  whose  thoughts  were  free  as 
the  wind,  and  whose  hearts  were  fresh  as 
the  dew  and  the  stars.  And  often  when 
our  talk  had  died  into  silence,  and  the 
wind  without  whistled  to  the  fire  within, 
we  had  fallen  to  dreaming  of  those  shad- 
owy aisles  arched  by  the  mighty  trees,  and 
of  the  splendid  pageant  that  should  make 
life  seem  as  great  and  rich  as  Nature  her- 
self. I  confess  that  all  my  dreams  came 
to  one  ending ;  that  I  should  suddenly 
awake  in  some  golden  hour  and  really 
know  Rosalind.  Of  course  I  had  been 
coming  through  all  these  years  to  know 
something  about  Rosalind ;  but  in  this 
busy  world,  with  work  to  be  done,  and 
bills  to  be  paid,  and  people  to  be  seen, 
and  journeys  to  be  made,  and  friction  and 
worry  and  fatigue  to  be  borne,  how  can 
we  really  come  to  know  one  another  ? 
We  may  meet  the  vicissitudes  and  changes 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

side  by  side ;  we  may  work  together  in 
the  long  days  of  toil ;  our  hearts  may 
repose  on  a  common  trust,  our  thoughts 
travel  a  common  road ;  but  how  rarely 
do  we  come  to  the  hour  when  the  pres- 
sure of  toil  is  removed,  the  clouds  of  anx- 
iety melt  into  blue  sky,  and  in  the  whole 
world  nothing  remains  but  the  sun  on 
the  flower,  and  the  song  in  the  trees, 
and  the  unclouded  light  of  love  in  the 
eyes  ? 

I  dreamed,  too,  that  in  finding  Rosa- 
lind I  should  also  find  myself.  There 
were  times  when  I  had  seemed  on  the 
very  point  of  making  this  discovery,  but 
something  had  always  turned  me  aside 
when  the  quest  was  most  eager  and  prom- 
ising; the  world  pressed  into  the  seclu- 
sion for  which  I  had  struggled,  and  when 
I  waited  to  hear  its  faintest  murmur  die 
in  the  distance,  suddenly  the  tumult  had 
risen  again,  and  the  dream  of  self-com- 
munion and  self-knowledge  had  vanished. 
To  get  out  of  the  uproar  and  confusion 
of  things,  I  had  often  fancied,  would  be 
172 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

like  exchanging  the  dusty  midsummer 
road  for  the  shade  of  the  woods  where 
the  brook  calms  the  day  with  its  pellucid 
note  of  effortless  flow,  and  the  hours  hide 
themselves  from  the  glances  of  the  sun. 
In  the  forest  of  Arden  I  felt  sure  I 
should  find  the  repose,  the  quietude, 
the  freedom  of  thought,  which  would 
permit  me  to  know  myself.  There,  too, 
I  suspected  Nature  had  certain  surprises 
for  me ;  certain  secrets  which  she  has 
been  holding  back  for  the  fortunate 
hour  when  her  spell  would  be  supreme 
and  unbroken.  I  even  hoped  that  I 
might  come  unaware  upon  that  ancient 
and  perennial  movement  of  life  upon 
which  I  seemed  always  to  happen  the 
very  second  after  it  had  been  suspended; 
that  I  might  hear  the  note  of  the  hermit 
thrush  breaking  out  of  the  heart  of  the 
forest ;  the  soulful  melody  of  the  night- 
ingale, pathetic  with  unappeasable  sor- 
row. In  the  Forest  of  Arden,  too, 
there  were  unspoiled  men  and  women, 
as  indifferent  to  the  fashion  of  the  world 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

and  the  folly  of  the  hour  as  the  stars  to 
the  impalpable  mist  of  the  clouds ;  men 
and  women  who  spoke  the  truth,  and 
saw  the  fact,  and  lived  the  right;  to 
whom  love  and  faith  and  high  hopes 
were  more  real  than  the  crowns  of 
which  they  had  been  despoiled  and 
the  kingdoms  from  which  they  had 
been  rejected.  All  this  I  had  dreamed, 
and  I  know  not  how  many  other  brave 
and  beautiful  dreams,  and  I  was  dream- 
ing them  again  when  Rosalind  laid  the 
apple  blossoms  on  the  study  table,  and 
answered,  decisively, "  To-morrow." 

"To-morrow,"  I  repeated;  "to-mor- 
row. But  how  are  you  going  to  get 
ready  ?  If  you  sit  up  all  night  you 
cannot  get  through  with  the  packing. 
You  said  only  yesterday  that  your 
summer  dressmaking  was  shamefully 
behind.  My  dear,  next  week  is  the 
earliest  possible  time  for  our  going." 

Rosalind  laughed  archly,  and  pushed 
the  apple  blossoms  over  the  wofully 
interlined  manuscript  of  my  new  article 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

on  Egypt.  There  was  in  her  very  at- 
titude a  hint  of  unsuspected  buoyancy 
and  strength ;  there  was  in  her  eyes  a 
,  light  which  I  have  never  seen  under 
our  uncertain  skies.  The  breath  of 
the  apple  blossoms  filled  the  room, 
and  a  bobolink,  poised  on  a  branch 
outside  the  window,  suddenly  poured 
a  rapturous  song  into  the  silence  of 
the  sweet  spring  day.  I  laid  down  my 
pen,  pushed  my  scattered  sheets  into  the 
portfolio,  covered  the  inkstand,  and  laid 
my  hand  in  hers.  "  Not  to-morrow,"  I 
said,  "  not  to-morrow.  Let  us  go  now." 

II 

Now  go  we  in  content 

To  liberty  and  not  to  banishment. 

I  HAVE  sometimes  entertained  myself 
by  trying  to  imagine  the  impressions 
which  our  modern  life  would  make 
upon  some  sensitive  mind  of  a  remote 
age.  I  have  fancied  myself  rambling 
about  New  York  with  Montaigne,  and 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

taking  note  of  his  shrewd,  satirical  com- 
ment. I  can  hardly  imagine  him  ex- 
pressing any  feeling  of  surprise,  much 
less  any  sentiment  of  admiration ;  but 
I  am  confident  that  under  a  masque  of 
ironical  self-complacency  the  old  Gas- 
con would  find  it  difficult  to  repress 
his  astonishment,  and  still  more  diffi- 
cult to  adjust  his  mind  to  evident  and 
impressive  changes.  I  have  ventured  at 
times  to  imagine  myself  in  the  company 
of  another  more  remote  and  finely  organ- 
ised spirit  of  the  past,  and  pictured  to 
myself  the  keen,  dispassionate  criticism 
of  Pericles  on  the  things  of  modern  habit 
and  creation ;  I  have  listened  to  his  lu- 
minous interpretations  of  the  changed  con- 
ditions which  he  saw  about  him  ;  I  have 
noted  his  unconcern  toward  the  merely 
material  advances  of  society,  his  penetra- 
tive insight  into  its  intellectual  and  moral 
developments.  A  mind  so  capacious  and 
open,  a  nature  so  trained  and  poised, 
could  not  be  otherwise  than  self-con- 
tained and  calm  even  in  the  presence 
176 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

of  changes  so  vast  and  manifold  as 
those  which  have  transformed  society 
since  the  days  of  the  great  Athenian  ; 
but  even  he  could  not  be  quite  unmoved 
if  brought  face  to  face  with  a  life  so 
unlike  that  with  which  he  had  been 
familiar;  there  must  come,  even  to  one 
who  feels  the  mastery  of  the  soul  over 
all  conditions,  a  certain  sense  of  wonder 
and  awe. 

It  was  with  some  such  feeling  that 
Rosalind  and  I  found  ourselves  in  the 
Forest  of  Arden.  The  journey  was  so 
soon  accomplished  that  we  had  no  time 
to  accustom  ourselves  to  the  changes  be- 
tween the  country  we  had  left  and  that 
to  which  we  had  come.  We  had  always 
fancied  that  the  road  would  be  long  and 
hard,  and  that  we  should  arrive  worn 
and  spent  with  the  fatigues  of  travel. 
We  were  astonished  and  delighted  when 
we  suddenly  discovered  that  we  were 
within  the  boundaries  of  the  Forest  long 
before  we  had  begun  to  think  of  the  end 

of  our  journey.     We  had  said  nothing 
12   '  I77 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

to  each  other  by  the  way :  our  thoughts 
were  so  busy  that  we  had  no  time  for 
speech.  There  were  no  other  travellers ; 
everybody  seemed  to  be  going  in  the 
opposite  direction ;  and  we  were  left  to 
undisturbed  meditation.  The  route  to 
the  Forest  is  one  of  those  open  secrets 
which  whosoever  would  know  must  learn 
for  himself;  it  is  impossible  to  direct 
those  who  do  not  discover  for  them- 
selves how  to  make  the  journey.  The 
Forest  is  probably  the  most  accessible 
place  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  but  it  is 
so  rarely  visited  that  one  may  go  half  a 
lifetime  without  meeting  a  person  who 
has  been  there.  I  have  never  been  able 
to  explain  the  fact  that  those  who  have 
spent  some  time  in  the  Forest,  as  well 
as  those  who  are  later  to  see  it,  seem  to 
recognise  each  other  by  instinct.  Rosa- 
lind and  I  happen  to  have  a  large  circle 
of  acquaintances,  and  it  has  been  our 
good  fortune  to  meet  and  recognise 
many  who  were  familiar  with  the  For- 
est and  who  were  able  to  tell  us  much 
178 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

about  its  localities  and  charms.  It  is 
not  generally  known,  and  it  is  probably 
wise  not  to  emphasise  the  fact,  that  the 
fortunate  few  who  have  access  to  the 
Forest  form  a  kind  of  secret  fraternity ; 
a  brotherhood  of  the  soul  which  is  secret 
because  those  alone  who  are  qualified  for 
membership  by  nature  can  understand 
either  its  language  or  its  aims.  It  is  a 
very  strange  thing  that  the  dwellers  in 
the  Forest  never  make  the  least  attempt 
at  concealment,  but  that,  no  matter  how 
frank  and  explicit  their  statements  may 
be,  nobody  outside  the  brotherhood  ever 
understands  where  the  Forest  lies  or  what 
one  finds  when  he  gets  there.  One  may 
write  what  he  chooses  about  life  in  the 
Forest,  and  only  those  whom  Nature  has 
selected  and  trained  will  understand  what 
he  discloses ;  to  all  others  it  will  be  an 
idle  tale  or  a  fairy  story  for  the  enter- 
tainment of  people  who  have  no  serious 
business  in  hand. 

I  remember  well  the  first  time  I   ever 
understood   that  there   is  a    Forest  of 
179 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

Arden,  and  that  they  who  choose  may 
wander  through  its  arched  aisles  of  shade 
and  live  at  their  will  in  its  deep  and 
beautiful  solitude  ;  a  solitude  in  which 
Nature  sits  like  a  friend  from  whose  face 
the  veil  has  been  withdrawn,  and  whose 
strange  and  foreign  utterance  has  been 
exchanged  for  the  most  familiar  speech. 
Since  that  memorable  afternoon  under 
the  apple  trees  I  have  never  been  far 
from  the  Forest,  although  at  times  I 
have  lost  sight  of  the  line  which  its  foli- 
age makes  against  the  horizon.  I  have 
always  intended  to  cross  that  line  some 
day  and  to  explore  the  Forest ;  perhaps 
even  to  make  a  home  for  myself  there. 
But  one's  dreams  must  often  wait  for 
their  realisation,  and  so  it  has  come  to 
pass  that  I  have  gone  all  these  years 
without  personal  familiarity  with  these 
beautiful  scenes.  I  have  since  learned 
that  one  never  comes  to  the  Forest  until 
he  is  thoroughly  prepared  in  heart  and 
mind,  and  I  understand  now  that  I  could 
not  have  come  earlier  even  if  I  had  made 
180 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

the  attempt.  As  it  happened,  I  con- 
cerned myself  with  other  things,  and 
never  approached  very  near  the  Forest, 
, although  never  very  far  from  it.  I  was 
never  quite  happy  unless  I  caught  fre- 
quent glimpses  of  its  distant  boughs,  and 
I  searched  more  and  more  eagerly  for 
those  who  had  left  some  record  of  their 
journeys  to  the  Forest,  and  of  their  life 
within  its  magical  boundaries.  I  dis- 
covered, to  my  great  joy,  that  the  libra- 
ries were  full  of  books  which  had  much 
to  say  about  the  delights  of  Arden  :  its 
enchanting  scenery  ;  the  music  of  its 
brooks  ;  the  sweet  and  refreshing  repose 
of  its  recesses  ;  the  noble  company  that 
frequent  it.  I  soon  found  that  all  the 
greater  poets  have  been  there,  and  that 
their  lines  had  caught  the  magical  radi- 
ance of  the  sky;  and  many  of  the  prose 
writers  showed  the  same  familiarity  with 
a  country  in  which  they  evidently  found 
whatever  was  sweetest  and  best  in  life.  I 
came  to  know  at  last  those  whose  knowl- 
edge of  Arden  was  most  complete,  and  I 
181 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

put  them  in  a  place  by  themselves;  a 
corner  in  the  study  to  which  Rosalind 
and  I  went  for  the  books  we  read  to- 
gether. I  would  gladly  give  a  list  of 
these  works  but  for  the  fact  I  have 
already  hinted  —  that  those  who  would 
understand  their  references  to  Arden  will 
come  to  know  them  without  aid  from 
me,  and  that  those  who  would  not  under- 
stand could  find  nothing  in  them  even  if  I 
should  give  page  and  paragraph.  It  was 
a  great  surprise  to  me,  when  I  first  began 
to  speak  of  the  Forest,  to  find  that  most 
people  scouted  the  very  idea  of  such  a 
country ;  many  did  not  even  understand 
what  I  meant.  Many  a  time,  at  sunset, 
when  the  light  has  lain  soft  and  tender 
on  the  distant  Forest,  I  have  pointed  it 
out,  only  to  be  told  that  what  I  thought 
was  the  Forest  was  a  splendid  pile  of 
clouds,  a  shining  mass  of  mist.  I  came 
to  understand  at  last  that  Arden  exists 
only  for  a  few,  and  I  ceased  to  talk 
about  it  save  to  those  who  shared  my 
faith.  Gradually  I  came  to  number 
182 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

among  my  friends  many  who  were  in  the 
habit  of  making  frequent  journeys  to  the 
Forest,  and  not  a  few  who  had  spent 
the  greater  part  of  their  lives  there.  I 
remember  the  first  time  I  saw  Rosalind 
I  saw  the  light  of  the  Arden  sky  in  her 
eyes,  the  buoyancy  of  the  Arden  air  in 
her  step,  the  purity  and  freedom  of  the 
Arden  life  in  her  nature.  We  built  our 
home  within  sight  of  the  Forest,  and 
there  was  never  a  day  that  we  did  not 
talk  about  and  plan  our  long-delayed 
journey  thither. 

"After  all,"  said  Rosalind,  on  that 
first  glorious  morning  in  Arden,  "  as  I 
look  back  I  see  that  we  were  always  on 
the  way  here." 


'83 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 
in 

Well,  this  is  the  Forest  of  Arden. 

THE  first  sensation  that  comes  to  one 
who  finds  himself  at  last  within  the  boun- 
daries of  the  Forest  of  Arden  is  a  deli- 
cious sense  of  freedom.  I  am  not  sure 
that  there  is  not  a  certain  sympathy  with 
outlawry  in  that  first  exhilarating  con- 
sciousness of  having  gotten  out  of  the 
conventional  world  —  the  world  whose 
chief  purpose  is  that  all  men  shall  wear 
the  same  coat,  eat  the  same  dinner,  repeat 
the  same  polite  commonplaces,  and  be 
forgotten  at  last  under  the  same  epitaph. 
Forests  have  been  the  natural  refuge 
of  outlaws  from  the  earliest  time,  and 
among  the  most  respectable  persons  there 
has  always  been  an  ill-concealed  liking 
for  Robin  Hood  and  the  whole  fraternity 
of  the  men  of  the  bow.  Truth  is  above 
all  things  characteristic  of  the  dwellers  in 
Arden,  and  it  must  be  frankly  confessed 
at  the  beginning,  therefore,  that  the  For- 
184 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

est  is  given  over  entirely  to  outlaws ; 
those  who  have  committed  some  grave 
offence  against  the  world  of  conventions, 
or  who  have  voluntarily  gone  into  exile 
out  of  sheer  liking  for  a  freer  life.  These 
persons  are  not  vulgar  law-breakers ; 
they  have  neither  blood  on  their  hands 
nor  ill-gotten  gains  in  their  pockets  ;  they 
are,  on  the  contrary,  people  of  uncom- 
monly honest  bearing  and  frank  speech. 
Their  offences  evidently  impose  small  bur- 
den on  their  conscience,  and  they  have 
the  air  of  those  who  have  never  known 
what  it  is  to  have  the  Furies  on  one's 
track.  Rosalind  was  struck  with  the 
charming  naturalness  and  gaiety  of  every 
one  we  met  in  our  first  ramble  on  that  de- 
licious and  never-to-be-forgotten  morning 
when  we  arrived  in  Arden.  There  was 
neither  assumption  nor  diffidence ;  there 
was  rather  an  entire  absence  of  any  kind 
of  self-consciousness.  Rosalind  had 
fancied  that  we  might  be  quite  alone  for 
a  time,  and  we  had  expected  to  have  a 
few  days  to  ourselves.  We  had  even 
'85 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

planned  in  our  romantic  moments  —  and 
there  is  always  a  good  deal  of  romance 
among  the  dwellers  in  Arden  —  a  con- 
tinuation of  our  wedding  journey  during 
the  first  week. 

"  It  will  be  so  much  more  delightful 
than  before,"  suggested  Rosalind,  "  be- 
cause nobody  will  stare  at  us,  and  we 
shall  have  the  whole  world  to  ourselves." 
In  that  last  phrase  I  recognised  the  ideal 
wedding  journey,  and  was  not  at  all  dis- 
mayed at  the  prospect  of  having  no 
society  but  Rosalind's  for  a  time.  But 
all  such  anticipations  were  dispelled  in 
an  hour.  It  was  not  that  we  met  many 
people  —  it  is  one  of  the  delights  of  the 
Forest  that  one  finds  society  enough  to 
take  away  the  sense  of  isolation,  but  not 
enough  to  destroy  the  sweetness  of  soli- 
tude ;  it  was  rather  that  the  few  we  met 
made  us  feel  at  once  that  we  had  equal 
claim  with  themselves  on  the  hospitality 
of  the  place.  The  Forest  was  not  only 
free  to  every  comer,  but  it  evidently  gave 
peculiar  pleasure  to  those  who  were  living 
186 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

in  it  to  convey  a  sense  of  ownership  to 
those  who  were  arriving  for  the  first  time. 
Rosalind  declared  that  she  felt  as  much 
at  home  as  if  she  had  been  born  there ; 
and  she  added  that  she  was  glad  she  had 
brought  only  the  dress  she  wore.  I  was 
a  little  puzzled  by  the  last  remark ;  it 
seemed  not  entirely  logical.  But  I  saw 
presently  that  she  was  expressing  the 
fellowship  of  the  place  which  forbade 
that  one  should  possess  anything  that 
was  not  in  use,  and  that,  therefore,  was 
not  adding  constantly  to  the  common 
stock  of  pleasure.  Concerning  the  feel- 
ing of  having  been  born  in  Arden,  I  be- 
came convinced  later  that  there  was  good 
reason  for  believing  that  everybody  who 
loved  the  place  had  been  born  there,  and 
that  this  fact  explained  the  home  feeling 
which  came  to  one  the  instant  he  set  foot 
within  the  Forest.  It  is,  in  fact,  the  only 
place  I  have  known  which  seemed  to  be- 
long to  me  and  to  everybody  else  at  the 
same  time ;  in  which  I  felt  no  alien  in- 
fluence. In  our  own  home  I  had  some- 
187 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

thing  of"  the  same  feeling,  but  when  I 
looked  from  a  window  or  set  foot  from 
a  door  I  was  instantly  oppressed  with 
a  sense  of  foreign  ownership.  In  the 
great  world  how  little  could  I  call  my 
own  !  Only  a  few  feet  of  soil  out  of 
the  measureless  landscape ;  only  a  few 
trees  and  flowers  out  of  all  that  bound- 
less foliage  !  I  seemed  driven  out  of  the 
heritage  to  which  I  was  born  ;  cheated 
out  of  my  birthright  in  the  beauty  of 
the  field  and  the  mystery  of  the  Forest; 
put  off  with  the  beggarly  portion  of  a 
younger  son  when  I  ought  to  have  fallen 
heir  to  the  kingdom.  My  chief  joy  was 
that  from  the  little  space  I  called  my 
own  I  could  see  the  whole  heavens ;  no 
man  could  rob  me  of  that  splendid 
vision. 

In  Arden,  however,  the  question  of  own- 
ership never  comes  into  one's  thoughts ; 
that  the  Forest  belongs  to  you  gives  you 
a  deep  joy,  but  there  is  a  deeper  joy  in 
the  consciousness  that  it  belongs  to 
everybody  else. 

188 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

The  sense  of  freedom,  which  comes  as 
strongly  to  one  in  Arden  as  the  smell 
of  the  sea  to  one  who  has  made  a  long 
journey  from  the  inland,  hints,  I  sup- 
pose, at  the  offence  which  makes  the 
dwellers  within  its  boundaries  outlaws. 
For  one  reason  or  another,  they  have 
all  revolted  against  the  rule  of  the  world, 
and  the  world  has  cast  them  out.  They 
have  offended  smug  respectability,  with 
its  passionless  devotion  to  deportment; 
they  have  outraged  conventional  usage, 
that  carefully  devised  system  by  which 
small  natures  attempt  to  bring  great 
ones  down  to  their  own  dimensions ; 
they  have  scandalised  the  orthodoxy 
which,  like  Memnon,  has  lost  the  music 
of  its  morning,  and  marvels  that  the 
world  no  longer  listens ;  they  have  de- 
rided venerable  prejudices — those  ugly 
relics  by  which  some  men  keep  in  re- 
membrance their  barbarous  ancestry ; 
they  have  refused  to  follow  flags  whose 
battles  were  won  or  lost  ages  ago ;  they 
have  scorned  to  compromise  with  un- 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

truth,  to  go  with  the  crowd,  to  acquiesce 
in  evil  "  for  the  good  of  the  cause,"  to 
speak  when  they  ought  to  keep  silent 
and  to  keep  silent  when  they  ought  to 
speak.  Truly  the  lists  of  sins  charged 
to  the  account  of  Arden  is  a  long  one, 
and  were  it  not  that  the  memory  of  the 
world,  concerned  chiefly  with  the  things 
that  make  for  its  comfort,  is  a  short  one, 
it  would  go  ill  with  the  lovers  of  the 
Forest.  More  than  once  it  has  hap- 
pened that  some  offender  has  suffered 
so  long  a  banishment  that  he  has  taken 
permanent  refuge  in  Arden,  and  proved 
his  citizenship  there  by  some  act  worthy 
of  its  glorious  privileges.  In  the  Forest 
one  comes  constantly  upon  traces  of 
those  who,  like  Dante  and  Milton,  have 
found  there  a  refuge  from  the  Philistin- 
ism of  a  world  that  often  hates  its  chil- 
dren in  exact  proportion  to  their  ability 
to  give  it  light.  For  the  most  part, 
however,  the  outlaws  who  frequent  the 
Forest  suffer  no  longer  banishment  than 
that  which  they  impose  on  themselves. 
190 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

They  come  and  go  at  their  own  sweet 
will ;  and  their  coming,  I  suspect,  is 
generally  a  matter  of  their  own  choos- 
ing. The  world  still  loves  darkness 
more  than  light ;  but  it  rarely  nowadays 
falls  upon  the  lantern-bearer  and  beats 
the  life  out  of  him,  as  in  "  the  good  old 
times."  The  world  has  grown  more 
decent  and  polite,  although  still  at  heart 
no  doubt  the  bad  old  world  which  stoned 
the  prophets.  It  sneers  where  it  once 
stoned ;  it  rejects  and  scorns  where  it 
once  beat  and  burned.  And  so  Arden 
has  become  a  refuge,  not  so  much  from 
persecution  and  hatred  as  from  ignorance, 
indifference,  and  the  small  wounds  of 
small  minds  bent  upon  stinging  that 
which  they  cannot  destroy. 

IV 

.  .  .  Fleet  the  time  carelessly,  as  they  did  in  the 
golden  world. 

ROSALIND    and    I    have   always    been 
planning  to   do  a  great   many  pleasant 
191 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

things  when  we  had  more  time.  During 
the  busy  days  when  we  barely  found 
opportunity  to  speak  to  each  other  we 
were  always  thinking  of  the  better  days 
when  we  should  be  able  to  sit  hours  to- 
gether with  no  knock  at  the  door  and 
no  imperative  summons  from  the  kitchen. 
Some  man  of  sufficient  eminence  to  give 
his  words  currency  ought  to  define  life 
as  a  series  of  interruptions.  There  are 
a  good  many  valuable  and  inspiring 
things  which  can  only  be  done  when  one 
is  in  the  mood,  and  to  secure  a  mood  is 
not  always  an  easy  matter ;  there  are 
moods  which  are  as  coy  as  the  most 
high-spirited  woman,  and  must  be  wooed 
with  as  much  patience  and  tact :  and 
when  the  illusive  prize  is  gained,  one 
holds  it  by  the  frailest  tenure.  An  in- 
terruption diverts  the  current,  cuts 
the  golden  thread,  breaks  the  exquisite 
harmony.  I  have  often  thought  that 
Dante  was  far  less  unfortunate  than  the 
world  has  judged  him  to  be.  If  he  had 
been  courted  and  crowned  instead  of 
192 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

rejected  and  exiled,  it  might  have  been 
that  his  genius  would  have  missed  the 
conditions  which  gave  it  immortal  utter- 
ance. Left  to  himself,  he  had  only  his 
own  nature  to  reckon  with ;  the  world 
passed  him  by,  and  left  him  to  the  com- 
panionship of  his  sublime  and  awful 
dreams.  To  be  left  alone  with  one's 
self  is  often  the  highest  good  fortune. 
Moreover,  I  detest  being  hurried :  it 
seems  to  me  the  most  offensive  way  in 
which  we  are  reminded  of  our  mortality; 
there  is  time  enough  if  we  know  how  to 
use  it.  People  who,  like  Goethe,  never 
rest  and  never  haste,  complete  their  work 
and  escape  the  friction  of  it. 

One  of  the  most  delightful  things 
about  life  in  Arden  is  the  absence  of  any 
sense  of  haste;  life  is  a  matter  of  being 
rather  than  of  doing,  and  one  shares  the 
tranquillity  of  the  great  trees  that  silently 
expand  year  by  year.  The  fever  and 
restlessness  are  gone,  the  long  strain  of 
nerve  and  will  relaxed ;  a  delicious  feel- 
ing of  having  strength  and  time  enough 
13  193 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

to  live  one's  life  and  do  one's  work  fills 
one  with  a  deep  and  enduring  sense  of 
repose. 

Rosalind,  who  had  been  busy  about 
so  many  things  that  I  sometimes  almost 
lost  sight  of  her  for  days  together,  found 
time  to  take  long  walks  with  me,  to 
watch  the  birds  and  the  clouds,  and  talk 
by  the  hour  about  all  manner  of  pleasant 
trifles.  I  came  to  feel  after  a  time  that 
just  what  I  anticipated  would  happen  in 
Arden  had  happened.  I  was  fast  be- 
coming acquainted  with  her.  We  spent 
days  together  in  the  most  delightful 
half-vocal  and  half-silent  fellowship ; 
leaving  everything  to  the  mood  of  the 
hour  and  the  place.  Our  walks  took 
us  sometimes  into  lovely  recesses,  where 
mutual  confidences  seemed  as  natural  as 
the  air  ;  sometimes  into  solitudes  where 
talk  seemed  an  impertinence,  and  we 
were  silent  under  the  spell  of  rustling 
leaves  and  thrilling  melodies  coming 
from  we  knew  not  what  hidden  min- 
strelsy. But  whether  silent  or  speaking, 
194 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

we  were  fast  coming  to  know  each  other. 
I  saw  many  traits  in  her,  many  charac- 
teristic habits  and  movements  which  I 
had  never  noted  before  ;  and  I  was  con- 
scious that  she  was  making  similar  dis- 
coveries in  me.  These  mutual  revela- 
tions absorbed  us  during  our  first  days 
in  the  Forest ;  and  they  confirmed  the 
impression  which  I  brought  with  me 
that  half  the  charm  of  people  is  lost  under 
the  pressure  of  work  and  the  irritation 
of  haste.  We  rarely  know  our  best 
friends  on  their  best  side ;  our  vision 
of  their  noblest  selves  is  constantly  ob- 
scured by  the  mists  of  preoccupation  and 
weariness. 

In  Arden  life  is  pitched  on  the  natural 
key ;  nobody  is  ever  hurried ;  nobody 
is  ever  interrupted ;  nobody  carries  his 
work  like  a  pack  on  his  back  instead 
of  leaving  it  behind  him  as  the  sun 
leaves  the  earth  when  the  day  is  over 
and  the  calm  stars  shine  in  the  un- 
broken silence  of  the  sky.  Rosalind  and 
I  were  entirely  conscious  of  the  transfor- 
ms 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

mation  going  on  within  us,  and  were  not 
slow  to  submit  ourselves  to  its  beneficent 
influence.  We  felt  that  Arden  would 
not  put  all  its  resources  into  our  hand 
until  we  had  shaken  off  the  dust  and 
parted  from  the  fret  of  the  world  we 
had  left  behind. 

In  those  first  inspiring  days  we  went 
oftenest  to  the  heart  of  the  pines,  where 
the  moss  grew  so  deep  that  our  move- 
ments were  noiseless  ;  where  the  light  fell 
in  subdued  and  gentle  tones  among  the 
closely  clustered  trees ;  and  where  no 
sound  ever  reached  us  save  the  organ 
music  of  the  great  boughs  when  the 
wind  evoked  their  sublime  harmonies. 
Many  a  time,  as  we  have  sat  silent 
while  the  tones  of  that  majestic  sym- 
phony rose  and  fell  about  us,  we  seemed 
to  become  a  part  of  the  scene  itself;  we 
felt  the  unfathomed  depth  of  a  music  pro- 
duced by  no  conscious  thought,  wrought 
out  by  no  conscious  toil,  but  akin,  in  its 
spontaneity  and  naturalness,  with  the 
fragrance  of  the  flower.  And  with  these 
196 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

thrilling  notes  there  came  to  us  the 
thought  of  the  calm,  reposeful,  irresist- 
ible growth  of  Nature ;  never  hasting, 
never  at  rest ;  the  silent  spreading  of 
the  tree,  the  steady  burning  of  the  star, 
the  noiseless  flow  of  the  river  !  Was 
not  this  sublime  unconsciousness  of  time, 
this  glorious  appropriation  of  eternity, 
something  we  had  missed  all  our  lives, 
and,  in  missing  it,  had  lost  our  birthright 
of  quiet  hours,  calm  thought,  sweet  fel- 
lowship, ripening  character  ?  The  fever 
and  tumult  of  the  world  we  had  left  were 
discords  in  a  strain  that  had  never 
yielded  its  music  before. 

For  nature  beats  in  perfect  tune, 
And  rounds  with  rhyme  her  every  rune, 
Whether  she  work  in  land  or  sea, 
Or  hide  underground  her  alchemy. 
Thou  canst  not  wave  thy  staff  in  air, 

Or  dip  thy  paddle  in  the  lake, 
But  it  carves  the  bow  of  beauty  there, 

And  the  ripples  in  rhymes  the  oars  forsake. 

After  one  of  these  long,  delicious  days 
in   the    heart    of    the   pines,    Rosalind 
197 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

slipped  her  hand  in  mine  as  we  walked 
slowly  homeward. 

"  This  is  the  first  day  of  my  life,"  she 
said. 


And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything. 

IT  was  one  of  those  entrancing  morn- 
ings when  the  earth  seems  to  have  been 
made  over  under  cover  of  night,  and 
one  drinks  the  first  draught  of  a  new  ex- 
perience when  he  sees  it  by  the  light  of 
a  new  day.  Such  mornings  are  not  un- 
common in  Arden,  where  the  nightly 
dews  work  a  perpetual  miracle  of  fresh- 
ness. On  this  particular  morning  we 
had  strayed  long  and  far,  the  silence  and 
solitude  of  the  woods  luring  us  hour 
after  hour  with  unspoken  promises 
to  the  imagination.  We  had  come  at 
length  to  a  place  so  secluded,  so  remote 
from  stir  and  sound,  that  one  might 
198 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

dream  there  of  the  sacredness  of  ancient 
oracles  and  the  revels  of  ancient  gods. 

Rosalind  had  gathered  wild  flowers 
along  the  way,  and  sat  at  the  base  of 
a  great  tree  intently  disentangling  her 
treasures.  With  that  figure  before  me, 
I  thought  of  nearer  and  more  sacred 
things  than  the  old  woodland  gods  that 
might  have  strayed  that  way  centuries 
ago  ;  I  had  no  need  to  recall  the  van- 
ished times  and  faiths  to  interpret  the 
spirit  of  an  hour  so  far  from  the  com- 
monplaces of  human  speech,  so  free  from 
the  passing  moods  of  human  life.  The 
sweet  unconsciousness  of  that  face,  bent 
over  the  mass  of  wild  flowers,  and  akin 
to  them  in  its  unspoiled  loveliness,  was 
to  that  hour  and  place  like  the  illumi- 
nated capital  in  the  old  missal ;  a  ray  of 
colour  which  unlocked  the  dark  mystery 
of  the  text.  When  one  can  see  the 
loveliness  of  a  wild  flower,  and  feel  the 
absorbing  charm  of  its  sentiment,  one  is 
not  far  from  the  kingdom  of  Nature. 

As  these  fancies  chased  one  another 
199 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

across  my  mind,  lying  there  at  full  length 
on  the  moss,  I,  too,  seemed  to  lose  all 
consciousness  that  I  had  ever  touched 
life  at  any  point  than  this,  or  that  any 
other  hour  had  ever  pressed  its  cup  of 
experience  to  my  lips.  The  great  world 
of  which  I  was  once  part  disappeared 
out  of  memory  like  a  mist  that  recedes 
into  a  faint  cloud  and  lies  faint  and  far 
on  the  boundaries  of  the  day ;  my  own 
personal  life,  to  which  I  had  been  bound 
by  such  a  multitude  of  gossamer  threads 
that  when  I  tried  to  unloose  one  I 
seemed  to  weave  a  hundred  in  its  place, 
seemed  to  sink  below  the  surface  of  con- 
sciousness. I  ceased  to  think,  to  feel;  I 
was  conscious  only  of  the  vast  and  glori- 
ous world  of  tree  and  sky  which  sur- 
rounded me.  I  felt  a  thrill  of  wonder 
that  I  should  be  so  placed.  I  had  often 
lain  thus  under  other  trees,  but  never 
in  such  a  mood  as  this.  It  was  as  if  I 
had  detached  myself  from  the  hitherto 
unbroken  current  of  my  personal  life, 
and  by  some  miracle  of  that  marvellous 
200 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

place  become  part  of  the  inarticulate  life 
of  Nature.  Clouds  and  trees,  dim  vistas 
of  shadow  and  flower-starred  space  of 
sunlight,  were  no  longer  alien  to  me  ;  I 
was  akin  with  the  vast  and  silent  move- 
ment of  things  which  encompassed  me. 
No  new  sound  came  to  me,  no  new  sight 
broke  on  my  vision  ;  but  I  heard  with 
ears,  and  I  saw  with  eyes,  to  which  all 
other  sounds  and  sights  had  ceased  to 
be.  I  cannot  translate  into  words  the 
mystery  and  the  thrill  of  that  hour  when, 
for  the  first  time,  I  gave  myself  wholly 
into  the  keeping  of  Nature,  and  she 
received  me  as  her  child.  What  I  felt, 
what  I  saw  and  heard,  belong  only  to 
that  place  ;  outside  the  Forest  of  Arden 
they  are  incomprehensible.  It  is  enough 
to  say  that  I  had  parted  with  all  my 
limitations,  and  freed  myself  from  all 
my  bonds  of  habit  and  ignorance  and 
prejudice ;  I  was  no  longer  worn  and 
spent  with  work  and  emotion  and  im- 
pression ;  I  was  no  longer  prisoned 
within  the  iron  bars  of  my  own  person- 

201 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

ality.  I  was  as  free  as  the  bird  ;  I  was 
as  little  bound  to  the  past  as  the  cloud 
that  an  hour  ago  was  breathed  out  of  the 
heart  of  the  sea;  I  was  as  joyous,  as 
unconscious,  as  wholly  given  to  the  rap- 
ture of  the  hour  as  if  I  had  come  into 
a  world  where  freedom  and  joy  were  an 
inalienable  and  universal  possession.  I 
did  not  speculate  about  the  great  fleecy 
clouds  that  moved  like  galleons  in  the 
ethereal  sea  above  me ;  I  simply  felt 
their  celestial  beauty,  the  radiancy  of 
their  unchecked  movement,  the  freedom 
and  splendour  of  the  inexhaustible  play 
of  life  of  which  they  were  part.  I  asked 
no  questions  of  myself  about  the  great 
trees  that  wove  the  garments  of  the 
magical  forest  about  me;  I  felt  the  stir 
of  their  ancient  life,  rooted  in  the  centu- 
ries that  had  left  no  record  in  that  place 
save  the  added  girth  and  the  discarded 
leaf;  I  had  no  thought  about  the  bird 
whose  note  thrilled  the  forest  save  the 
rapture  of  pouring  out  without  measure 
or  thought  the  joy  that  was  in  me;  I 

202 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

felt  the  vast  irresistible  movement  of  life 
rolling,  wave  after  wave,  out  of  the  un- 
seen seas  beyond,  obliterating  the  faint 
divisions  by  which,  in  this  working 
world,  we  count  the  days  of  our  toil, 
and  making  all  the  ages  one  unbroken 
growth ;  I  felt  the  measureless  calm,  the 
sublime  repose,  of  that  uninterrupted 
expansion  of  form  and  beauty,  from 
flower  to  star  and  from  bird  to  cloud ; 
I  felt  the  mighty  impulse  of  that  force 
which  lights  the  sun  in  its  track  and 
sets  the  stars  to  mark  the  boundaries 
of  its  way.  Unbroken  repose,  unlimited 
growth,  inexhaustible  life,  measureless 

O  *  ' 

force,  unsearchable  beauty  —  who  shall 
feel  these  things  and  not  know  that  there 
are  no  words  for  them  !  And  yet  in 
Arden  they  are  part  of  every  man's 
life! 

And  all  the  time  Rosalind  sat  weaving 
her  wild  flowers  into  a  loose  wreath. 

"  I  must  not  take  them  from  this 
place,"  she  said,  as  she  bound  them 
about  the  venerable  tree,  as  one  would 
203 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

bind  the  fancy  of  the  hour  to  some 
eternal  truth. 

"  Yesterday,"  she  added,  as  she  sat 
down  again  and  shook  the  stray  leaves 
and  petals  from  her  lap  —  "yesterday 
was  the  first  day  of  my  life :  to-day  is 
the  second." 

It  is  one  of  the  delights  of  Arden  that 
one  does  not  need  to  put  his  whole 
thought  into  words  there ;  half  the  need 
of  language  vanishes  when  we  say  only 
what  we  mean,  and  what  we  say  is  heard 
with  sympathy  and  intelligence.  Rosa- 
lind and  I  were  thinking  the  same 
thought.  Yesterday  we  had  discovered 
that  an  open  mind,  freedom  from  work 
and  care  and  turmoil,  make  it  possible 
for  people  to  be  their  true  selves  and  to 
know  each  other.  To-day  we  had  dis- 
covered that  Nature  reveals  herself  only 
to  the  open  mind  and  heart ;  to  all  others 
she  is  deaf  and  dumb.  The  worldling 
who  seeks  her  never  sees  so  much  as  the 
hem  of  her  garment;  the  egotist,  the 
self-engrossed  man,  searches  in  vain  for 
204 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

her  counsel  and  consolation ;  the  over- 
anxious, fretful  soul  finds  her  indifferent 
and  incommunicable.  We  may  seek  her 
far  and  wide,  with  minds  intent  upon 
other  things,  and  she  will  forever  elude 
us ;  but  on  the  morning  we  open  our 
windows  with  a  free  mind,  she  is  there  to 
break  for  us  the  seal  of  her  treasures  and 
to  pour  out  the  perfume  of  her  flowers. 
She  is  cold,  remote,  inaccessible  only  so 
long  as  we  close  the  doors  of  our  hearts 
and  minds  to  her.  With  the  drudges 
and  slaves  of  mere  getting  and  saving  she 
has  nothing  in  common ;  but  with  those 
who  hold  their  souls  above  the  price  of 
the  world  and  the  bribe  of  success  she 
loves  to  share  her  repose,  her  strength, 
and  her  beauty.  In  Arden  Rosalind  and 
I  cared  as  little  for  the  world  we  had  left 
as  children  intent  upon  daisies  care  for 
the  dust  of  the  road  out  of  which  they 
have  come  into  the  wide  meadows. 


205 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 
VI 

Here  feel  we  but  the  penalty  of  Adam, 
The  season's  difference,  as  the  icy  fang 
And  churlish  chiding  of  the  winter  wind, 
Which,  when  it  bites  and  blows  upon  my  body, 
Even  till  I  shrink  with  cold,  I  smile  and  say, 
This  is  no  flattery  :   these  are  counsellors 
That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I  am. 

IF  the  ideal  conditions  of  life,  of  which 
most  of  us  dream,  could  be  realised,  the 
result  would  be  a  padded  and  luxurious 
existence,  well-housed,  well-fed,  well- 
dressed,  with  all  the  winds  of  heaven 
tempered  to  indolence  and  cowardice. 
We  are  saved  from  absolute  shame  by 
the  consciousness  that  if  such  a  life  were 
possible  we  should  speedily  revolt  against 
the  comforts  that  flattered  the  body  while 
they  ignored  the  soul.  In  Arden  there 
is  no  such  compromise  with  our  immoral 
desires  to  get  results  without  work,  to 
buy  without  paying  for  what  we  receive. 
Nature  keeps  no  running  accounts  and 
suffers  no  man  to  get  in  her  debt ;  she 
206 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

deals  with  us  on  the  principles  of  im- 
mutable righteousness ;  she  treats  us  as 
her  equals,  and  demands  from  us  an 
equivalent  for  every  gift  or  grace  of 
sight  or  sound  she  bestows.  She  rejects 
contemptuously  the  advances  of  the 
weaklings  who  aspire  to  become  her 
beneficiaries  without  having  made  good 
their  claim  by  some  service  or  self-denial ; 
she  rewards  those  only  who,  like  herself, 
find  music  in  the  tempest  as  well  as  in 
the  summer  wind ;  joy  in  arduous  ser- 
vice as  well  as  in  careless  ease.  A  world 
in  which  there  were  no  labours  to  be  ac- 
complished, no  burdens  to  be  borne,  no 
storms  to  be  endured,  would  be  a  world 
without  true  joy,  honest  pleasure,  or 
noble  aspiration.  It  would  be  a  fool's 
paradise. 

The  Forest  of  Arden  is  not  without 
its  changes  of  weather  and  season.  Rosa- 
lind and  I  had  fancied  that  it  was  always 
summer  there,  and  that  sunlight  reigned 
from  year's  end  to  year's  end ;  if  we  had 
been  told  that  storms  sometimes  over- 
207 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

shadowed  it,  and  that  the  icy  fang  of 
winter  is  felt  there,  we  should  have 
doubted  the  report.  We  had  a  good 
deal  to  learn  when  we  first  went  to  Ar- 
den ;  in  fact,  we  still  have  a  great  deal  to 
learn  about  this  wonderful  country,  in 
which  so  many  of  the  ideals  and  stand- 
ards with  which  we  were  once  familiar 
are  reversed.  It  is  one  of  the  blessed 
results  of  living  in  the  Forest  that  one  is 
more  and  more  conscious  that  he  does 
not  know  and  more  and  more  eager  to 
learn.  There  are  no  shams  of  any  sort 
in  Arden,  and  all  pride  in  concealing 
one's  ignorance  disappears ;  one's  chief 
concern  is  to  be  known  precisely  as  he  is. 
We  were  a  little  sensitive  at  first,  a  little 
disposed  to  be  cautious  about  asking 
questions  that  might  reveal  our  igno- 
rance ;  but  we  speedily  lost  the  false 
shame  we  had  brought  with  us  from  a 
world  where  men  study  to  conceal,  as 
a  means  of  protecting,  the  things  that 
are  most  precious  to  them.  When  we 
learned  that  in  the  Forest  nobody  vulgar- 
208 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

ises  one's  affairs  by  making  them  matter 
of  common  talk,  that  all  the  meannesses  of 
slander  and  gossip  and  misinterpretation 
are  unknown,  and  that  charity,  courtesy, 
and  honour  are  the  unfailing  law  of  inter- 
course, we  threw  down  our  reserves  and 
experienced  the  refreshing  freedom  and 
sympathy  of  full  knowledge  between  man 
and  man. 

After  a  long  succession  of  golden  days 
we  awoke  one  morning  to  the  familiar 
sound  of  rain  on  the  roof;  there  was 
no  mistake  about  it ;  it  was  raining  in 
Arden  !  Rosalind  was  so  incredulous 
that  I  could  see  she  doubted  if  she  were 
awake  ;  and  when  she  had  satisfied  her- 
self of  that  fact  she  began  to  ask  herself 
whether  we  had  been  really  in  the  Forest 
at  all ;  whether  we  had  not  been  dreaming 
in  a  kind  of  double  consciousness,  and 
had  now  come  to  the  awakening  which 
should  rob  us  of  this  golden  memory. 
At  last  we  recognised  the  fact  that  we 
were  still  in  Arden,  and  that  it  was  rain- 
ing. It  was  a  melancholy  awakening, 
M  209 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

and  we  were  silent  and  depressed  at 
breakfast;  for  the  first  time  no  birds 
sang,  and  no  sunlight  flickered  through 
the  leaves  and  brought  the  day  smiling 
to  our  very  door.  The  rain  fell  steadily, 
and  when  the  wind  swept  through  the 
trees  a  sound  like  a  sob  went  up  from 
the  Forest.  After  breakfast,  for  lack  of 
active  occupation,  we  lighted  a  few  sticks 
in  the  rough  fireplace,  and  found  our- 
selves gradually  drawn  into  the  circle 
of  cheer  in  the  little  room.  The  great 
world  of  Nature  was  for  a  moment  out 
of  doors,  and  there  seemed  no  incongruity 
in  talking  about  our  own  experiences ; 
we  recalled  the  days  in  the  world  we  had 
left  behind ;  we  remembered  the  faces  of 
our  neighbours ;  we  reminded  each  other 
of  the  incidents  of  our  journey;  we  re- 
told, in  antiphonal  fashion,  the  story  of 
our  stay  in  the  Forest ;  we  grew  eloquent 
as  we  described,  one  after  another,  the 
noble  persons  we  had  met  there ;  our 
hearts  kindled  as  we  became  conscious 
of  the  wonderful  enrichment  and  enlarge- 

2IO 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

ment  of  life  that  had  come  to  us ;  and 
as  the  varied  splendours  of  the  days  and 
scenes  of  Arden  returned  in  our  mem- 
ories,  the  spell  of  the  Forest  came  upon 
us,  and  the  mysterious  cadence  of  the 
rain,  falling  from  leaf  to  leaf,  added 
another  and  deeper  tone  to  the  harmony 
of  our  Forest  life.  The  gloom  had 
gone;  we  had  all  the  delight  of  a  new 
experience  in  our  hearts. 

"  I  am  glad  it  rains,"  Rosalind  said, 
as  she  gave  the  fire  one  of  her  vigorous 
stirrings  ;  "  I  am  glad  it  rains :  I  don't 
think  we  should  have  realised  how  lovely 
it  is  here  if  we  were  not  shut  in  from 
time  to  time.  One  is  played  upon  by 
so  many  impressions  that  one  must 
escape  from  them  to  understand  how 
beautiful  they  are.  And  then  I  'm  not 
sure  that  even  dark  days  and  rain  have 
not  something  which  sunshine  and  clear 
skies  could  not  give  us."  As  usual, 
Rosalind  had  spoken  my  thought  before 
I  had  made  it  quite  clear  to  myself;  I 
began  to  feel  the  peculiar  delight  of  our 

211 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

comfort  in  the  heart  of  that  great  forest 
when  the  storm  was  abroad.  The  mono- 
tone of  the  rain  became  rhythmic  with 
some  ancient,  primeval  melody,  which 
the  woods  sang  before  their  solitude  had 
been  invaded  by  the  eager  feet  of  men 
always  searching  for  something  which 
they  do  not  possess.  I  felt  the  spell  of 
that  mighty  life  which  includes  the  tem- 
pest and  the  tumult  of  winds  and  waves 
among  the  myriad  voices  with  which  it 
speaks  its  marvellous  secret.  Half  the 
meaning  would  go  out  of  Nature  if  no 
storms  ever  dimmed  the  light  of  stars  or 
vexed  the  calm  of  summer  seas.  It  is 
the  infinite  variety  of  Nature  which  fits 
response  to  every  need  and  mood,  renews 
forever  the  freshness  of  contact  with  her, 
and  holds  us  by  a  power  of  which  we 
never  weary  because  we  never  exhaust  its 
resources. 

"  After  all,  Rosalind,"  I  said,  "  it  was 
not  the  storms  and  the  cold  which  made 
our  old  life  hard,  and  gave  Nature  an 
unfriendly  aspect ;  it  was  the  things  in 

212 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

our  human  experience  which  gave  tem- 
pest and  winter  a  meaning  not  their  own. 
In  a  world  in  which  all  hearts  beat  true, 
and  all  hands  were  helpful,  there  would 
be  no  real  hardship  in  Nature.  It  is  the 
loss,  sorrow,  weariness,  and  disappoint- 
ment of  life  which  give  dark  days  their 
gloom,  and  cold  its  icy  edge,  and  work 
its  bitterness.  The  real  sorrows  of  life 
are  not  of  Nature's  making  ;  if  faithless- 
ness and  treachery  and  every  sort  of 
baseness  were  taken  out  of  human  lives, 
we  should  find  only  a  healthy  and  vig- 
orous joy  in  such  hardship  as  Nature 
imposes  upon  us.  Upon  men  of  sound, 
sweet  life,  she  lays  only  such  burdens  as 
strength  delights  to  carry,  because  in  so 
doing  it  increases  itself." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Rosalind.  "  The 
day  is  dark  only  when  the  mind  is  dark ; 
all  weathers  are  pleasant  when  the  heart 
is  at  rest.  There  are  rainy  days  in  Ar- 
den, but  no  gloomy  ones  ;  there  are  prob- 
ably cold  days,  but  none  that  chill  the 
soul." 

213 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  Rosa- 
lind's smile  or  the  sudden  breaking  of 
the  sun  through  the  clouds  that  made 
the  room  brilliant ;  probably  it  was  both. 
Rosalind  opened  the  lattice,  and  I  saw 
that  the  rain  had  ceased.  The  drops 
still  hung  on  every  leaf,  but  the  clouds 
were  breaking  into  great  shining  masses, 
and  the  blue  of  the  sky  was  of  unsearch- 
able purity  and  depth.  The  sun  poured 
a  flood  of  light  into  the  heart  of  the 
Forest,  and  suddenly  every  tiny  drop, 
that  a  moment  ago  might  have  seemed  a 
symbol  of  sorrow,  held  the  radiant  sun 
on  its  little  disk,  and  every  sphere  shone 
as  if  a  universe  of  fairy  creation  had  been 
suddenly  breathed  into  being.  And  the 
splendour  touched  Rosalind  also. 


VII 

.   .  .  Pray  you,  if  you  know, 
Where  in  the  purlieus  of  this  forest  stands 
A  sheep-cote  fenc'd  about  with  olive  trees  ? 
***** 
214 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

The  rank  of  osiers  by  the  murmuring  stream 
Left  on  your  right  hand,  brings  you  to  the  place. 
But  at  this  hour  the  house  doth  keep  itself. 


YEARS  ago,  when  we  were  planning  to 
build  a  certain  modest  little  house,  Rosa- 
lind and  I  found  endless  delight  in  the 
pleasures  of  anticipation.  By  day  and 
by  night  our  talk  came  back  to  the  home 
we  were  to  make  for  ourselves.  We 
discussed  plan  after  plan  and  found 
none  quite  to  our  mind;  we  examined 
critically  the  houses  we  visited ;  we 
pored  over  books  ;  we  laid  the  experi- 
ence of  our  friends  under  contribution ; 
and  when  at  last  we  had  agreed  upon 
certain  essentials  we  called  an  architect 
to  our  aid,  and  fondly  imagined  that 
now  the  prelude  of  discussion  and  de- 
lay was  over,  we  should  find  unalloyed 
delight  in  seeing  our  imaginary  home 
swiftly  take  form  and  become  a  thing 
of  reality.  Alas  for  our  hopes  !  Ex- 
pense followed  fast  upon  expense  and 
delay  upon  delay.  There  were  endless 
215 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

troubles  with  masons  and  carpenters  and 
plumbers  ;  and  when  our  dream  was  at 
last  realised,  the  charm  of  it  had  some- 
how vanished ;  so  much  anxiety,  care, 
and  vexation  had  gone  into  the  process 
of  building  that  the  completed  structure 
seemed  to  be  a  monument  of  our  toil 
rather  than  a  refuge  from  the  world. 

After  this  sad  experience,  Rosalind 
and  I  contented  ourselves  with  building 
castles  in  Spain ;  and  so  great  has  been 
our  devotion  to  this  occupation  that  we 
are  already  joint  owners  of  immense 
possessions  in  that  remote  and  beautiful 
country.  It  is  a  singular  circumstance 
that  the  dwellers  in  Arden,  almost  with- 
out exception,  are  holders  of  estates  in 
Spain.  I  have  never  seen  any  of  these 
splendid  properties ;  in  fact,  Rosalind 
and  I  have  never  seen  our  own  castles ; 
but  I  have  heard  very  full  and  graphic 
descriptions  of  those  distant  seats.  In 
imagination  I  have  often  seen  the  great 
piles  crowning  the  crests  of  wooded  hills, 
whence  noble  parks  and  vast  landscapes 
216 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

lay  spread  out ;  I  have  been  thrilled  by 
the  notes  of  the  hunting-horn  and  dis- 
cerned from  afar  the  cavalcade  of  beauti- 
ful women  and  gallant  men  winding  its 
way  to  the  gates  of  the  courtyard ;  I 
have  seen  splendid  banners  afloat  from 
turret  and  casement ;  I  have  seen  lights 
flashing  at  night  and  heard  faint  mur- 
murs of  music  and  laughter.  Truly 
they  are  fortunate  who  own  castles  in 
Spain ! 

In  the  Forest  of  Arden  there  is  no 
such  brave  show  of  battlement  and  ram- 
part. In  all  our  rambles  we  never  came 
upon  a  castle  or  palace  ;  in  fact,  so  far  as 
I  remember,  no  one  ever  spoke  of  such 
structures.  They  seem  to  have  no  place 
there.  Nor  is  it  hard  to  understand  this 
singular  divergence  from  the  ways  of  a 
world  whose  habits  and  standards  are 
continually  reversed  in  the  Forest.  In 
castle  and  palace,  the  wealth  and  splen- 
dour of  life  —  everything  that  gives  it 
grace  and  beauty  to  the  eye  —  are  treas- 
ured within  massive  walls  and  protected 
217 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

from  the  common  gaze  and  touch. 
Every  great  park,  with  its  reaches  of 
inviting  sward  and  its  groups  of  noble 
trees,  seems  to  say  to  those  who  pass 
along  the  highway :  "  We  are  too  rare 
for  your  using."  Every  stately  palace, 
with  its  wonderful  paintings  and  hang- 
ings, its  sculpture  and  furnishings,  locks 
its  massive  gates  against  the  great  world 
without,  as  if  that  which  it  guards  were 
too  precious  for  common  eyes.  In  Arden 
no  one  dreams  of  fencing  off  a  lovely  bit 
of  open  meadow  or  a  cluster  of  great 
trees ;  private  ownership  is  unknown  in 
the  Forest.  Those  who  dwell  there  are 
tenants  in  common  of  a  grander  estate 
than  was  ever  conquered  by  sword,  pur- 
chased by  gold,  or  bequeathed  by  the 
laws  of  descent.  There  are  homes  for 
privacy,  for  the  sanctities  of  love  and 
friendship ;  but  the  wealth  of  life  is 
common  to  all.  Instead  of  elegant 
houses,  and  a  meagre,  inferior  public 
life,  as  in  the  great  cities  of  the  world, 
there  are  modest  homes  and  a  noble 
218 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

common  life.  If  the  houses  in  our 
cities  were  simple  and  home-like  in 
their  appointments,  and  all  their  treas- 
ures of  art  and  beauty  were  lodged  in 
noble  structures,  open  to  every  citizen, 
the  world  would  know  something  of  the 
habits  of  those  who  find  in  Arden  that 
satisfying  thought  of  life  which  is  de- 
nied them  among  men.  Moderation, 
simplicity,  frugality  for  our  private  and 
personal  wants ;  splendid  profusion, 
noble  lavishness,  beautiful  luxury  for 
that  common  life  which  now  languishes 
because  so  few  recognise  its  needs. 
When  will  the  world  learn  the  real 
lesson  of  civilisation,  and,  for  the  cheap 
and  ignoble  aspect  of  modern  cities, 
bring  back  the  stateliness  of  Rome 
and  the  beauty  of  that  wonderful  city 
whose  poetry  and  art  were  but  the 
voices  of  her  common  life  ? 

The  murmuring  stream   at  our  door 

in  Arden  whispered  to  us  by  day  and  by 

night  the  sweet  secret  of  the  happiness 

in  the  Forest,  where  no  man  strives  to 

219 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

outshine  his  neighbour  or  to  encumber 
the  free  and  joyous  play  of  his  life 
with  those  luxuries  which  are  only  an- 
other name  for  care.  Our  modest  little 
home  sheltered  but  did  not  enslave  us ; 
it  held  a  door  open  for  all  the  sweet 
ministries  of  affection,  but  it  was  barred 
against  anxiety  and  care ;  birds  sang  at 
its  flower-embowered  windows,  and  the 
fragrance  of  the  beautiful  days  lingered 
there,  but  no  sound  from  the  world  of 
those  that  strive  and  struggle  ever  en- 
tered. We  were  joyous  as  children  in  a 
home  which  protected  our  bodies  while 
it  set  our  spirits  at  liberty ;  which  gave 
us  the  sweetness  of  rest  and  seclusion, 
while  it  left  us  free  to  use  the  ample 
leisure  of  the  Forest  and  to  drink  deep 
of  its  rich  and  healthful  life.  Vine-cov- 
ered, overshadowed  by  the  pine,  with  the 
olive  standing  in  friendly  neighbourhood, 
our  home  in  Arden  seemed  at  the  same 
time  part  of  the  Forest  and  part  of  our- 
selves. If  it  had  grown  out  of  the  soil, 
it  could  not  have  fitted  into  the  land- 

220 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

scape  with  less  suggestion  of  artifice  and 
construction ;  indeed,  Nature  had  fur- 
nished all  the  materials,  and  when  the 
simple  structure  was  complete  she 
claimed  it  again  and  made  it  her  own 
with  endless  device  of  moss  and  vine. 
Without,  it  seemed  part  of  the  Forest ; 
within,  it  seemed  the  visible  history  of 
our  life  there.  Friends  came  and  went 
through  the  unlatched  door ;  morning 
broke  radiant  through  the  latticed  win- 
dow ;  the  seasons  enfolded  it  with  their 
changing  life ;  our  own  fellowship  of 
mind  and  heart  made  it  unspeakably 
sacred.  Love  and  loyalty  within  ;  noble 
friends  at  the  hearthstone ;  soft  or  shin- 
ing heavens  above  ;  mystery  of  forest 
and  music  of  stream  without :  this  is 
home  in  Arden. 

VIII 

.  .  .  books  in  the  running  brooks. 

IN  the  days  before  we  went  to  Arden, 
Rosalind  and  I  had  often  wondered  what 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

books  we  should  find  there,  and  we  had 
anticipated  with  the  keenest  curiosity  that 
in  the  mere  presence  or  absence  of  cer- 
tain books  we  should  discover  at  last  the 
final  principle  of  criticism,  the  absolute 
standard  of  literary  art.  Many  a  time  as 
we  sat  before  the  study  fire  and  finished 
the  reading  of  some  volume  that  had 
yielded  us  unmixed  delight,  we  had  said 
to  each  other  that  we  should  surely  find 
it  in  Arden,  and  read  it  again  in  an  at- 
mosphere in  which  the  most  delicate  and 
beautiful  meanings  would  become  as  clear 
as  the  exquisite  tracery  of  frost  on  the 
study  windows.  That  we  should  find  all 
the  classics  there  we  had  not  the  least 
doubt ;  who  could  imagine  a  community 
of  intelligent  persons  without  Homer 
and  Dante  and  Shakespeare  and  Words- 
worth! How  the  volumes  would  be 
housed  we  did  not  try  to  divine ;  but 
that  we  should  find  them  there  we  did 
not  think  of  doubting.  Our  chief  thought 
was  of  the  principle  of  selection,  long 
sought  after  by  lovers  of  books  but  never 

222 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

yet  found,  which  we  were  certain  would 
be  easily  discovered  when  we  came  to 
look  along  the  shelves  of  the  libraries  in 
Arden.  With  what  delight  we  antici- 
pated the  long  days  when  we  should  read 
together  again,  and  amid  such  novel  sur- 
roundings, the  books  we  loved !  For, 
although  our  home  contained  few  lux- 
uries, it  had  fed  the  mind ;  there  was  not 
a  great  soul  in  literature  whose  name  was 
not  on  the  shelves  of  our  library,  and  the 
companionships  of  that  room  made  our 
quiet  home  more  rich  in  gracious  and 
noble  influences  than  many  a  palace. 

And  yet  we  had  been  in  the  Forest 
several  months  before  we  even  thought 
of  books ;  so  absorbed  were  we  in  the 
noble  life  of  the  place,  in  the  inspiring 
society  about  us.  There  came  a  morn- 
ing, however,  when,  as  I  looked  out  into 
the  shadows  of  the  deep  woods,  I  recalled 
a  wonderful  line  of  Dante's  that  must 
have  come  to  the  poet  as  he  passed 
through  some  silent  and  sombre  wood- 
land path.  Suddenly  I  remembered  that 
223 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

months  had  passed  since  we  had  opened 
a  book  ;  we  whose  most  inspiring  hours 
had  once  been  those  in  which  we  read 
together  from  some  familiar  page.  For 
an  instant  I  felt  something  akin  to  re- 
morse ;  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  been  dis- 
loyal to  friends  who  had  never  failed  me 
in  any  time  of  need.  But  as  I  meditated 
on  this  strange  forgetfulness  of  mine,  I 
saw  that  in  Arden  books  have  no  place 
and  serve  no  purpose.  Why  should  one 
read  a  translation  when  the  original  work 
lies  open  and  legible  before  him  ?  Why 
should  one  watch  the  reflections  in  the 
shadowy  surface  of  the  lake  when  the 
heavens  shine  above  him  ?  Why  should 
one  linger  before  the  picturesque  land- 
scape which  art  has  imperfectly  trans- 
ferred to  canvas  when  the  scene,  with  all 
its  elusive  play  of  light  and  shade,  lies 
outspread  before  him  ?  I  became  con- 
scious that  in  Arden  one  lives  habitually 
in  the  world  which  books  are  always 
striving  to  portray  and  interpret;  that 
one  sees  with  his  own  eyes  all  that  the 
224 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

eyes  of  the  keenest  observer  have  ever 
seen ;  that  one  feels  in  his  own  soul  all 
the  greatest  soul  has  ever  felt.  That 
which  in  the  outer  world  most  men  know 
only  by  report,  in  Arden  each  one  knows 
for  himself.  The  stories  of  travellers 
cease  to  interest  us  when  we  are  at  last 
within  the  borders  of  the  strange,  far 
country. 

Books  are,  at  the  best,  faint  and  im- 
perfect transcriptions  of  Nature  and  life; 
when  one  comes  to  see  Nature  as  she  is 
with  his  own  eyes,  and  to  enter  into  the 
secrets  of  life,  all  transcriptions  become 
inadequate.  He  who  has  heard  the 
mysterious  and  haunting  monotone  of 
the  sea  will  never  rest  content  with  the 
noblest  harmony  in  which  the  composer 
seeks  to  blend  those  deep,  elusive  tones; 
he  who  has  sat  hour  by  hour  under  the 
spell  of  the  deep  woods  will  feel  that 
spell  shorn  of  its  magical  power  in  the 
noblest  verse  that  ever  sought  to  contain 
and  express  it ;  he  who  has  once  looked 
with  clear,  unflinching  gaze  into  the 
15  225 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

depths  of  human  life  will  find  only  vague 
shadows  of  the  mighty  realities  in  the 
greatest  drama  and  fiction.  The  eternal 
struggle  of  art  is  to  utter  these  unutter- 
able things ;  the  immortal  thirst  of  the 
soul  will  lead  it  again  and  again  to  these 
ancient  fountains,  whence  it  will  bring 
back  its  handful  of  water  in  vessels  curi- 
ously carven  by  the  hands  of  imagina- 
tion. But  no  cup  of  man's  making  will 
ever  hold  all  that  fountain  has  to  give, 
and  to  those  who  are  really  athirst  these 
golden  and  beautifully  wrought  vessels 
are  insufficient;  they  must  drink  of  the 
living  stream. 

In  Arden  we  found  these  ancient  and 
perennial  fountains ;  and  we  drank  deep 
and  long.  There  was  that  in  the  mystery 
of  the  woods  which  made  all  poetry  seem 
pale  and  unreal  to  us ;  there  was  that  in 
life,  as  we  saw  it  in  the  noble  souls  about 
us,  which  made  all  records  and  transcrip- 
tions in  books  seem  cold  and  superficial. 
What  need  had  we  of  verse  when  the 
things  which  the  greatest  poets  had  seen 
226 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

with  vision  no  clearer  than  ours  lay  clear 
and  unspeakably  beautiful  before  us  ? 
What  had  fiction  or  history  for  us,  upon 
whom  the  thrilling  spell  of  the  deepest 
human  living  was  laid  !  Rosalind  and  I 
were  hourly  meeting  those  whose  thoughts 
had  fed  the  world  for  generations,  and 
whose  names  were  on  all  lips,  but  they 
never  spoke  of  the  books  they  had  writ- 
ten, the  pictures  they  had  painted,  the 
music  they  had  composed.  And,  strange 
to  say,  it  was  not  because  of  these  splen- 
did works  that  we  were  drawn  to  them ; 
it  was  the  quality  of  their  natures,  the 
deep,  compelling  charm  of  their  minds, 
which  filled  us  with  joy  in  their  compan- 
ionship. In  Arden  it  is  a  small  matter 
that  Shakespeare  has  written  "Hamlet," 
or  Wordsworth  the  "  Ode  on  Immor- 
tality ; "  not  that  which  they  have  ac- 
complished but  that  which  they  are  in 
themselves  gives  these  names  a  lustre  in 
Arden  such  as  shines  from  no  crown  of 
fame  in  the  outer  world.  Rosalind  and 
I  had  dreamed  that  we  might  meet  some 
227 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

of  those  whose  words  had  been  the  food 
of  immortal  hope  to  us,  but  we  almost 
dreaded  that  nearer  acquaintance  which 
might  dispel  the  illusion  of  superiority. 
How  delighted  were  we  to  discover  that 
not  only  are  great  souls,  really  under- 
stood, greater  than  all  their  works,  but 
that  the  works  were  forgotten  and  nothing 
was  remembered  but  the  soul !  Not  as 
those  who  are  fed  by  the  bounty  of  the 
king,  but  as  kings  ourselves,  were  we  re- 
ceived into  this  noble  company.  Were 
we  not  born  to  the  same  inheritance  ? 
Were  not  Nature  and  life  ours  as  truly 
as  they  were  Shakespeare's  and  Words- 
worth's ?  As  we  sat  at  rest  under  the 
great  arms  of  the  trees,  or  roamed  at  will 
through  the  woodland  paths,  the  one 
thought  that  was  common  to  us  all  was, 
not  how  nobly  these  scenes  had  been 
pictured  and  spoken,  but  how  far  above 
all  language  of  art  they  were,  and  how 
shallow  runs  the  stream  of  speech  when 
these  mysterious  treasures  of  feeling  and 
insight  are  launched  upon  it ! 
228 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 


IX 

.   .   .  every  day 
Men  of  great  worth  resorted  to  this  forest. 

THE  friendship  of  Nature  is  matched 
in  Arden  with  human  friendships,  as 
sincere,  as  void  of  disguise  and  flattery, 
as  stimulating  and  satisfying.  There  are 
times  when  every  sensitive  person  is 
wounded  by  misunderstanding  of  mo- 
tives, by  lack  of  sympathy,  by  indiffer- 
ence and  coldness ;  such  hours  came  not 
infrequently  to  Rosalind  and  myself  in 
the  old  days  before  we  set  out  for  the 
Forest.  We  found  unfailing  consola- 
tion and  strength  in  our  common  faith 
and  purpose,  but  the  frigidity  of  the 
atmosphere  made  us  conscious  at  times 
of  the  effort  one  puts  forth  to  simply 
sustain  the  life  of  his  ideals,  the  charm 
and  sweetness  of  those  secret  hopes 
which  feed  the  soul.  What  must  it  be 
to  live  among  those  who  are  quick  to 
recognise  nobility  of  motive,  to  conspire 
229 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

with  aspiration,  to  believe  in  the  best 
and  highest  in  each  other  ?  It  was  to 
taste  such  a  life  as  this,  to  feel  the  con- 
soling power  of  mutual  faith  and  the 
inspiration  of  a  common  devotion  to  the 
ideals  that  were  dearest  to  us,  that  our 
thoughts  turned  so  often  and  with  such 
longing  to  Arden.  In  such  moments 
we  opened  with  delight  certain  books 
which  were  full  of  the  joy  and  beauty 
of  the  Forest  life ;  books  which  brought 
back  the  dreams  that  were  fading  out 
and  touched  us  afresh  with  the  unsearch- 
able charm  and  beauty  of  the  Ideal. 
Surely  there  could  no  better  fortune 
befall  us  than  to  be  able  to  call  these 
great  ministering  spirits  our  friends. 

But,  strong  as  was  our  longing,  we 
were  not  without  misgivings  when  we 
first  found  ourselves  in  Arden.  In  this 
commerce  of  ideas  and  hopes,  what  had 
we  to  give  in  exchange  ?  How  could 
we  claim  that  equality  with  those  we 
longed  to  know  which  is  the  only  basis 
of  friendship  ?  We  were  unconsciously 
230 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

carrying  into  the  Forest  the  limitations 
of  our  old  life,  and  among  all  the  glad 
surprises  that  awaited  us,  there  was  none 
so  joyful  as  the  discovery  that  our  mis- 
givings vanished  as  soon  as  we  began  to 
know  our  neighbours.  Neither  of  us 
will  ever  forget  the  perfect  joy  of  those 
earliest  meetings  ;  a  joy  so  great  that  we 
wondered  if  it  could  endure.  There  is 
nothing  so  satisfying  as  quick  compre- 
hension of  one's  hopes,  instant  sympathy 
with  them,  absolute  frankness  of  speech, 
and  the  brilliant  and  stimulating  play  of 
mind  upon  mind  where  there  is  complete 
unconsciousness  of  self  and  complete 
absorption  in  the  idea  and  the  hour. 
There  was  something  almost  intoxi- 
cating in  those  first  wonderful  talks  in 
Arden ;  we  seemed  suddenly  not  only 
to  be  perfectly  understood  by  others, 
but  for  the  first  time  to  understand  our- 
selves ;  the  horizons  of  our  mental  world 
seemed  to  be  swiftly  receding  and  new 
continents  of  truth  were  lifted  up  into 
the  clear  light  of  consciousness.  All 
231 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

that  was  best  in  us  was  set  free ;  we 
were  confident  where  we  had  been  un- 
certain and  doubtful ;  we  were  bold 
where  we  had  been  almost  cowardly. 
We  spoke  our  deepest  thought  frankly  ; 
we  drew  from  their  hiding-places  our 
noblest  dreams  of  the  life  we  hoped  to 
live  and  the  things  we  hoped  to  achieve ; 
we  concealed  nothing,  reserved  nothing, 
evaded  nothing ;  we  were  desirous  above 
all  things  that  others  should  know  us 
as  we  knew  ourselves.  It  was  especially 
restful  and  refreshing  to  speak  of  our 
failures  and  weaknesses,  of  our  struggles 
and  defeats ;  for  these  experiences  of 
ours  were  instantly  matched  by  kindred 
experiences,  and  in  the  common  sym- 
pathy and  comprehension  a  new  kind  of 
strength  came  to  us.  The  humiliation 
of  defeat  was  shared,  we  found,  by  even 
the  greatest ;  and  that  which  made  these 
noble  souls  what  they  were  was  not 
freedom  from  failure  and  weakness, 
but  steadfast  struggle  to  overcome  and 
achieve.  As  the  life  of  a  new  hope 
232 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

filled  our  hearts,  we  remembered  with  a 
sudden  pain  the  world  out  of  which  we 
had  escaped,  where  every  one  hides  his 
weakness  lest  it  feed  a  vulgar  curiosity, 
and  conceals  his  defeats  lest  they  be 
used  to  destroy  rather  than  to  build 
him  up. 

With  what  delight  did  we  find  that 
in  Arden  the  talk  touched  only  great 
themes,  in  a  spirit  of  beautiful  candour 
and  unaffected  earnestness !  To  have 
exchanged  the  small  personal  talk  from 
which  we  had  often  been  unable  to  es- 
cape for  this  simple,  sincere  discourse 
on  the  things  that  were  of  common  in- 
terest was  like  exchanging  the  cloud- 
enveloped  lowland  for  some  sunny 
mountain  slope,  where  every  breath  was 
vital  and  one  mused  on  half  a  continent 
spread  out  at  his  feet.  There  is  no  food 
for  the  soul  but  truth,  and  we  were 
filled  with  a  mighty  hunger  when  we 
understood  for  how  long  a  time  we  had 
been  but  half  fed.  A  new  strength  came 
to  us,  and  with  it  an  openness  of  mind 
233 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

and  a  responsiveness  of  heart  that  made 
life  an  inexhaustible  joy.  We  were  set 
free  from  the  weariness  of  old  struggles 
to  make  ourselves  understood ;  we  were 
no  longer  perplexed  with  doubts  about 
the  reality  of  our  ideas ;  we  had  but  to 
speak  the  thought  that  was  in  us,  and 
to  live  fearlessly  and  joyously  in  the 
hour  that  was  before  us.  Frank  speak- 
ing, absolute  candour,  that  would  once 
have  wounded,  now  only  cheered  and 
stimulated ;  the  spirit  of  entire  helpful- 
ness drives  out  all  morbid  self-conscious- 
ness. Differences  no  longer  embitter 
when  courtesy  and  faith  are  universal 
possessions. 

There  is  nothing  more  sacred  than 
friendship,  and  it  is  impossible  to  pro- 
fane it  by  drawing  the  veil  from  its 
ministries.  The  charm  of  a  perfectly 
noble  companionship  between  two  souls 
is  as  real  as  the  perfume  of  a  flower,  and 
as  impossible  to  convey  by  word  or 
speech  ;  Nature  has  made  its  sanctity 
inviolable  by  making  it  forever  impos- 
234 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

sible  of  revelation  and  transference.  I 
cannot  translate  into  any  language  the 
delicate  charm,  the  inexhaustible  variety, 
the  noble  fidelity  to  truth,  the  vigour 
and  splendour  of  thought,  the  unfailing 
sympathy,  of  our  Arden  friendships ; 
they  are  a  part  of  the  Forest,  and  one 
must  seek  them  there.  It  would  vul- 
garise these  fellowships  to  catalogue  the 
great  names,  always  familiar  to  us,  and 
yet  which  gained  another  and  a  better 
familiarity  when  they  ceased  to  recall 
famous  persons  and  became  associated 
with  those  who  sat  at  our  hearthstone  or 
gathered  about  our  simple  board.  Rosa- 
lind was  sooner  at  home  in  this  noble 
company  than  I  :  she  had  far  less  to 
learn  ;  but  at  last  I  grew  into  a  familiarity 
with  my  neighbours  which  was  all  the 
sweeter  to  me  because  it  registered  a 
change  in  myself  long  hoped  for,  often 
despaired  of,  at  last  accomplished.  To 
be  at  one  with  Nature  was  a  joy  which 
made  life  seem  rich  beyond  all  earlier 
thought ;  but  when  to  this  there  was 
235 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

added  the  fellowship  of  spirits  as  true 
and  great  as  Nature  herself,  the  wine 
of  life  overflowed  the  exquisite  cup  into 
which  an  invisible  hand  poured  it.  The 
days  passed  like  a  dream  as  we  strayed 
together  through  the  woodland  paths ; 
sometimes  in  some  deep  and  shadowy 
glen  silence  laid  her  finger  on  our  lips, 
and  in  a  common  mood  we  found  our- 
selves drawn  together  without  speech. 
Often  at  night,  when  the  magic  of  the 
moon  has  woven  all  manner  of  enchant- 
ments about  us,  we  have  lingered  hour 
after  hour  under  that  supreme  spell 
which  is  felt  only  when  soul  speaks  with 
soul. 

X 

.  .  .  there  's  no  clock  in  the  forest. 

THERE  were  a  great  many  days  in 
Arden  when  we  did  absolutely  nothing ; 
we  awoke  without  plans  ;  we  fell  asleep 
without  memories.  This  was  especially 
true  of  the  earlier  part  of  our  stay  in 
236 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

the  Forest;  the  stage  of  intense  enjoy- 
ment of  new-found  freedom  and  repose. 
There  was  a  kind  of  rapture  in  the  pos- 
session  of  our  days  that  was  new  to  us  ; 
a  sense  of  ownership  of  time  of  which  we 
had  never  so  much  as  dreamed  when  we 
lived  by  the  clock.  Those  tiny  orna- 
mental hands  on  the  delicately  painted 
dial  were  our  taskmasters,  disguised  un- 
der forms  so  dainty  and  fragile  that, 
while  we  felt  their  tyranny,  we  never  so 
much  as  suspected  their  share  in  our 
servitude.  Silent  themselves,  they  issued 
their  commands  in  tones  we  dared  not 
disregard ;  fashioned  so  cunningly,  they 
ruled  us  as  with  iron  sceptres ;  moving 
within  so  small  a  circle,  they  sent  us 
hither  and  yon  on  every  imaginable 
service.  They  severed  eternity  into 
minute  fragments,  and  dealt  it  out  to 
us  minute  by  minute  like  a  cordial 
given  drop  by  drop  to  the  dying ;  they 
marked  with  relentless  exactness  the  brief 
periods  of  our  leisure  and  indicated  the 
hours  of  our  toil.  We  could  not  escape 
237 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

from  their  vigilant  and  inexorable  sur- 
veillance ;  day  and  night  they  kept  silent 
record  beside  us,  measuring  out  the 
golden  light  of  summer  in  their  tiny 
balances,  and  doling  out  the  pittance 
of  winter  sunshine  with  niggardly  reluc- 
tance. They  hastened  to  the  end  of  our 
joys,  and  moved  with  funereal  slowness 
through  the  appointed  times  of  our  sor- 
row. They  ruled  every  season,  pervaded 
every  day,  recorded  every  hour,  and, 
like  misers  hoarding  a  treasure,  doled 
out  our  birthright  of  leisure  second  by 
second ;  so  that,  being  rich,  we  were  al- 
ways impoverished ;  inheritors  of  vast 
fortune,  we  were  put  off  with  a  meagre 
income ;  born  free,  we  were  servants  of 
masters  who  neither  ate  nor  slept,  that 
they  might  never  for  a  second  surrender 
their  overseership. 

There  are  no  clocks  in  Arden ;  the 
sun  bestows  the  day,  and  no  imperti- 
nence of  men  destroys  its  charm  by  cal- 
culating its  value  and  marking  it  with 
a  price.  The  only  computers  of  time 
238 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

are  the  great  trees  whose  shadows  register 
the  unbroken  march  of  light  from  east 
to  west.  Even  the  days  and  nights  lost 
that  painful  distinctness  which  they  had 
for  us  when  they  gave  us  a  constant 
sense  of  loss,  an  incessant  apprehension 
of  change  and  age.  Their  shining  pro- 
cession leaves  no  such  records  in  Arden ; 
they  come  like  the  waves  whose  ceaseless 
flow  sings  of  the  boundless  sea  whence 
they  come.  They  bring  no  consciousness 
of  ebbing  years  and  joys  and  strength ; 
they  bring  rather  a  sense  of  eternal  re- 
source and  beneficence.  In  Arden  one 
never  feels  in  haste ;  there  is  always  time 
enough  and  to  spare ;  in  fact,  the  word 
"  time  "  is  never  used  in  the  vernacular  of 
the  Forest  except  when  reference  is  made 
to  the  enslaved  world  without.  There 
were  moments  at  the  beginning  when  we 
felt  a  little  bewildered  by  our  freedom, 
and  I  think  Rosalind  secretly  longed  for 
the  familiar  tones  of  the  cuckoo  clock 
which  had  chimed  so  many  years  in  and 
out  for  us  in  the  old  days.  One  must 
239 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

get  accustomed  even  to  good  fortune, 
and  after  one  has  been  confined  within 
the  narrow  limits  of  a  little  plot  of  earth 
the  possession  of  a  continent  confuses 
and  perplexes.  But  men  are  born  to 
good  fortune  if  they  but  knew  it,  and  we 
were  soon  reconciled  to  the  possession 
of  inexhaustible  wealth.  We  felt  the 
delight  of  a  sudden  exchange  of  poverty 
for  richness,  a  swift  transition  from  bond- 
age to  freedom.  Eternity  was  ours,  and 
we  ceased  to  divide  it  into  fragments,  or 
to  set  it  off  into  duties  and  work.  We 
lived  in  the  consciousness  of  a  vast  leisure; 
a  quiet  happiness  took  the  place  of  the 
old  anxiety  to  always  do  at  the  moment 
the  thing  that  ought  to  be  done ;  we 
accepted  the  days  as  gifts  of  joy  rather 
than  as  bringers  of  care. 

It  was  delightful  to  fall  asleep  lulled 
by  the  rustle  of  the  leaves,  and  to  awake, 
without  memory  of  care  or  pressure  of 
work,  to  a  day  that  had  brought  nothing 
more  discordant  into  the  Forest  than  the 
singing  of  birds.  We  rose  exhilarated 
240 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

and  buoyant,  and  breakfasted  merrily  un- 
der a  great  oak ;  sometimes  we  lingered 
far  on  into  the  morning,  yielding  our- 
selves to  the  spell  of  the  early  day  when 
it  no  longer  proses  of  work  and  duty, 
but  sings  of  freedom  and  ease  and  the 
strength  that  makes  a  play  of  life.  Often 
we  strayed  without  plan  or  purpose,  as 
the  winding  paths  of  the  Forest  led  us ; 
happy  and  care-free  as  children  suddenly 
let  loose  in  fairyland.  We  discovered 
moss-grown  paths  which  led  into  the 
very  heart  of  the  Forest,  and  we  pressed 
on  silently  from  one  green  recess  to 
another  until  all  memory  of  the  sunnier 
world  faded  out  of  mind.  Sometimes 
we  emerged  suddenly  into  a  wide,  bril- 
liant glade ;  sometimes  we  came  into  a 
sanctuary  so  overhung  with  great  masses 
of  foliage,  so  secluded  and  silent,  that  we 
took  the  rude  pile  of  moss-grown  stones 
we  found  there  as  an  altar  to  solitude, 
and  our  stillness  became  part  of  the  uni- 
versal worship  of  silence  which  touched 
us  with  a  deep  and  beautiful  solemnity. 
16  241 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

Wherever  we  strayed  the  same  tranquil 
leisure  enfolded  us ;  day  followed  day  in 
an  order  unbroken  and  peaceful  as  the 
unfolding  of  the  flowers  and  the  silent 
march  of  the  stars.  Time  no  longer 
ran  like  the  few  sands  in  a  delicate  hour- 
glass held  by  a  fragile  human  hand,  but 
like  a  majestic  river  fed  by  fathomless 
seas.  The  sky,  bare  and  free  from  hori- 
zon to  horizon,  was  itself  a  symbol  of 
eternity,  with  its  infinite  depth  of  colour, 
its  sublime  serenity,  its  deep  silence 
broken  only  by  the  flight  and  songs  of 
birds.  These  were  at  home  in  that  ethe- 
real sphere,  at  rest  in  that  boundless 
space,  and  we  were  not  slow  to  learn  the 
lesson  of  their  freedom  and  joy.  We 
gave  ourselves  up  to  the  sweetness  of 
that  unmeasured  life,  without  thought 
of  yesterday  or  to-morrow;  we  drank 
the  cup  which  to-day  held  to  our  lips, 
and  knew  that  so  long  as  we  were  athirst 
that  draught  would  not  be  denied  us. 


242 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 


XI 

.  .  .  every  of  this  happy  number 
That  have  endur'd  shrewd  nights  and  days  with  us, 
Shall  share  the  good  of  our  returned  fortune, 
According  to  the  measure  of  their  states. 

THERE  is  this  great  consolation  for 
those  who  cannot  live  continually  in  the 
Forest  of  Arden :  that,  having  once 
proven  one's  citizenship  there,  one  can 
return  at  will.  Those  who  have  lived 
in  Arden  and  have  gone  back  again  into 
the  world,  are  sustained  in  their  loneli- 
ness by  the  knowledge  of  their  fellowship 
with  a  nobler  community.  Aliens  though 
they  are,  they  have  yet  a  country  to  which 
they  are  loyal,  not  through  interest,  but 
through  aspiration,  imagination,  faith, 
and  love.  Rosalind  and  I  found  the 
months  in  Arden  all  too  brief;  our  life 
there  was  one  long  golden  day,  whose 
sunset  cast  a  soft  and  tender  light  on 
our  whole  past  and  made  it  beautiful  for 
us.  It  is  one  of  the  delights  of  the 
243 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

Forest  that  only  the  noblest  aspects  of 
life  are  visible  there ;  or,  rather,  that  the 
hard  and  bare  details  of  living,  seen  in 
the  atmosphere  of  Arden,  yield  some 
truth  of  character  or  experience  which, 
like  the  rose,  makes  even  the  rough 
calyx  which  encased  it  beautiful.  We 
had  sometimes  spoken  together  of  our 
return  to  the  world  we  had  left,  but  we 
put  off  as  long  as  possible  all  definite 
preparations.  I  am  not  sure  that  I 
should  ever  have  come  back  if  Rosalind 
had  not  taken  the  matter  into  her  own 
hands.  She  remembered  that  there  was 
work  to  be  done  which  ought  not  to  be 
longer  postponed  ;  that  there  were  duties 
to  be  met  which  ought  not  to  be  longer 
evaded ;  and  when  did  Rosalind  fail  to 
be  or  to  do  that  which  the  hour  and  the 
experience  commanded  ?  We  treasured 
the  last  days  as  if  the  minutes  were  pure 
gold ;  we  lingered  in  talk  with  our  friends 
as  if  we  should  never  again  hear  such 
spoken  words ;  we  loitered  in  the  woods 
as  if  the  spell  of  that  beautiful  silence 
244 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

would  never  again  touch  us.  And  yet 
we  knew  that,  once  possessed,  these 
things  were  ours  forever ;  neither  care, 
nor  change,  nor  time,  nor  death,  could 
take  them  from  us,  for  henceforth  they 
were  part  of  ourselves. 

We  stood  again  at  length  on  the  little 
porch,  covered  with  dust,  and  turned  the 
key  in  the  unused  lock.  I  think  we 
were  both  a  little  reluctant  to  enter  and 
begin  again  the  old  round  of  life  and 
work.  The  house  seemed  smaller  and 
less  home-like,  the  furniture  had  lost  its 
freshness,  the  books  on  the  shelves 
looked  dull  and  faded.  Rosalind  ran 
to  a  window,  opened  it,  and  let  in  a 
flood  of  sunshine.  I  confess  I  was  be- 
ginning to  feel  a  little  heartsick,  but 
when  the  light  fell  on  her  I  remembered 
the  rainy  day  in  Arden,  when  the  first 
rays  after  the  storm  touched  her  and 
dispelled  the  gloom,  and  I  realised,  with 
a  joy  too  deep  for  words  or  tears,  that  I 
had  brought  the  best  of  Arden  with  me. 
We  talked  little  during  those  first  days 
245 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

of  our  home-coming,  but  we  set  the 
house  in  order,  we  recalled  to  the  lonely 
rooms  the  old  associations,  and  we 
quietly  took  up  the  cares  and  burdens 
we  had  dropped.  It  was  not  easy  at 
first,  and  there  were  days  when  we  were 
both  heartsore ;  but  we  waited  and 
worked  and  hoped.  Our  neighbours 
found  us  more  silent  and  absorbed  than 
of  old,  but  neither  that  change  nor  our 
absence  seemed  to  have  made  any  im- 
pression upon  them.  Indeed,  we  even 
doubted  if  they  knew  that  we  had  taken 
such  a  journey.  Day  by  day  we  stepped 
into  the  old  places  and  fell  into  the  old 
habits,  until  all  the  broken  threads  of 
our  life  were  reunited  and  we  were  ap- 
parently as  much  a  part  of  the  world  as 
if  we  had  never  gone  out  of  it  and  found 
a  nobler  and  happier  sphere. 

But  there  came  to  us  gradually  a  clear 
consciousness  that,  though  we  were  in 
the  world,  we  were  not  of  it,  nor  ever 
again  could  be.  It  was  no  longer  our 
world ;  its  standards,  its  thoughts,  its 
246 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

pleasures,  were  not  for  us.  We  were 
not  lonely  in  it ;  on  the  contrary,  when 
the  first  impression  of  strangeness  wore 
off,  we  were  happier  than  we  had  ever 
been  in  the  old  days.  Our  reputation 
was  no  longer  in  the  breath  of  men ;  our 
fortune  was  no  longer  at  the  mercy  of 
rising  or  falling  markets  ;  our  plans  and 
hopes  were  no  longer  subject  to  chance 
and  change.  We  had  a  possession  in 
the  Forest  of  Arden,  and  we  had  friends 
and  dreams  there  beyond  the  empire  of 
time  and  fate.  And  when  we  compared 
the  security  of  our  fortunes  with  the 
vicissitudes  to  which  the  estates  of  our 
neighbours  were  exposed  ;  when  we  com- 
pared our  noble-hearted  friends  with 
their  meaner  companionships ;  when  we 
compared  the  peaceful  serenity  of  our 
hearts  with  their  perplexities  and  anxi- 
eties, we  were  filled  with  inexpressible 
sympathy.  We  no  longer  pierced  them 
with  the  arrows  of  satire  and  wit  because 
they  accepted  lower  standards  and  found 
pleasure  in  things  essentially  pleasure- 
247 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

less ;  they  had  not  lived  in  Arden,  and 
why  should  we  berate  them  for  not  pos- 
sessing that  which  had  never  been  within 
their  reach  ?  We  saw  that  upon  those 
whom  an  inscrutable  fate  has  led  through 
the  paths  of  Arden  a  great  and  noble 
duty  is  laid.  They  are  not  to  be  the 
scorners  and  despisers  of  those  whose 
eyes  are  holden  that  they  cannot  see, 
and  whose  ears  are  stopped  that  they 
cannot  hear,  the  vision  and  the  melody 
of  things  ideal.  They  are  rather  to  be 
eyes  to  the  blind  and  ears  to  the  deaf. 
They  are  to  interpret  in  unshaken  trust 
and  patience  that  which  has  been  re- 
vealed to  them ;  servants  are  they  of  the 
Ideal,  and  their  ministry  is  their  exceed- 
ing great  reward.  So  long  as  they  see 
clearly,  it  is  small  matter  to  them  that 
their  message  is  rejected,  the  mighty 
consolation  which  they  bring  refused ; 
their  joy  does  not  hang  on  acceptance  or 
rejection  at  the  hands  of  their  fellows. 
The  only  real  losers  are  those  who  will 

not  see  nor  hear.     It  is  not  the  light- 
248 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

bringer  who  suffers  when  the  torch  is  torn 
from  his  hands  ;  it  is  those  whose  paths 
he  would  lighten. 

And  more  and  more,  as  the  days  went 
by,  Rosalind  and  I  found  the  life  of  the 
Forest  stealing  into  our  old  home.  The 
old  monotony  was  gone  ;  the  old  weari- 
ness and  depression  crossed  our  thresh- 
old no  more.  If  work  was  pressing,  we 
were  always  looking  through  and  beyond 
it ;  we  saw  the  fine  results  that  were 
being  accomplished  in  it ;  we  recognised 
the  high  necessity  which  imposed  it.  If 
perplexities  and  cares  sat  with  us  at  the 
fireside,  we  received  them  as  friends ;  for 
in  the  light  of  Arden  had  we  not  seen 
their  harsh  masks  removed,  and  behind 
them  the  benignant  faces  of  those  who 
patiently  serve  and  minister,  and  receive 
no  reward  save  fear  and  avoidance  and 
misconception  ?  In  fact,  having  lived  in 
Arden,  and  with  the  consciousness  that 
we  might  seek  shelter  there  as  in  another 
and  securer  home,  the  world  barely 
touched  us,  save  to  awaken  our  sym- 
249 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

pathies  and  to  evoke  our  help.  It  had 
little  to  give  us ;  we  had  much  to  give 
it.  There  was  within  and  about  us  a 
peace  and  joy  which  were  not  for  us 
alone.  Our  little  home  was  folded  within 
impalpable  walls,  and  beyond  it  lay  a 
vision  of  green  foliage  and  golden  masses 
of  cloud  that  never  faded  off  the  horizon. 
There  were  benignant  presences  in  our 
rooms  visible  to  no  eyes  but  ours ;  for 
our  Arden  friends  did  not  forsake  us. 
There  were  memories  between  us  which 
made  all  our  days  beautiful  with  the 
consciousness  of  immortal  faith  and  love  ; 
there  were  hopes  which,  like  celestial  be- 
ings, looked  upon  us  with  eyes  deep  with 
unspeakable  prophecy  as  they  waited  at 
the  doors  of  the  future. 

It  is  an  autumn  afternoon,  and  the 
sun  lies  warm  on  the  ripening  vines  that 
cover  the  wall,  and  on  the  late  flowers 
that  bloom  by  the  roadside.  As  I  write 
these  words  I  look  up  from  my  portfolio, 
and  Rosalind  sits  there,  work  in  hand, 
250 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

smiling  at  me  over  her  flying  needle. 
My  glance  rests  on  her  a  moment,  and 
a  strange  uncertainty  comes  over  me. 
Have  I  really  been  in  Arden,  or  have  I 
dreamed  these  things,  looking  into  Rosa- 
lind's eyes?  It  matters  little  whether  I 
have  travelled  or  dreamed ;  where  Rosa- 
lind is,  there,  for  me  at  least,  lies  the 
Forest  of  Arden. 


251 


AN    UNDISCOVERED   ISLAND 

Where  should  this  music  be  ?  i'  the  air,  or  th*  earth  ? 
It  sounds  no  more  :  and,  sure,  it  waits  upon 
Some  god  o'  the  island. 


253 


Chapter  XXII 

An  Undiscovered  Island 

I 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

And  then  take  hands  ; 

Curtsied  when  you  have,  and  kiss'd 

The  wild  waves  whist, 

Foot  it  featly  here  and  there  ; 

And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burden  bear. 

ONE  winter  evening,  some  time  after 
the  memorable  year  of  our  first 
visit  to  the  Forest  of  Arden,  Rosalind 
and  I  were  planning  a  return  to  that  en- 
chanting place,  and  in  the  glow  of  the 
fire  on  the  hearth  were  picturing  to  our- 
selves the  delights  that  would  be  ours 
again,  when  the  clang  of  the  knocker 
suddenly  recalled  us  from  our  dreams. 
Hospitably  inclined,  as  I  trust  and  be- 
lieve we  are,  at  that  moment  an  interrup- 
tion seemed  like  an  intrusion.  But  our 
momentary  annoyance  was  speedily  dis- 
255 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

pelled  when  the  library  door  opened, 
and,  with  the  freedom  which  belongs  to 
old  friendship,  the  Poet  entered  unan- 
nounced. No  one  could  have  been  more 
welcome  on  that  wintry  night  than  this 
genial  and  human  soul,  bound  to  us  by 
many  ties  of  familiar  association  as  well 
as  by  frequent  neighbourliness  in  the 
woods  of  Arden.  It  had  happened  again 
and  again  that  we  had  found  ourselves 
together  in  the  recesses  of  the  Forest, 
and  enchanting  beyond  all  speech  had 
been  those  days  and  nights  of  mingled 
talk  and  dreams. 

The  Poet  is  one  of  the  friends  whose 
coming  is  peculiarly  welcome  because  it 
always  harmonises  with  the  mood  of 
the  moment,  and  no  speech  is  needed  to 
bring  us  into  agreement.  Rosalind  took 
the  visitor  into  our  plan  at  once,  and 
urged  him  to  go  with  us  on  this  myste- 
rious journey  ;  whereupon  he  told  us  that, 
by  one  of  those  delightful  coincidences 
which  are  always  happening  to  people  of 
kindred  tastes  and  aims,  this  very  errand 
256 


An  Undiscovered  Island 

had  brought  him  to  our  door.  The 
time  had  come,  he  said,  when  he  could 
no  longer  resist  the  longing  for  Arden  ! 
We  all  smiled  at  that  sudden  outburst ; 
how  well  we  knew  what  it  meant !  After 
months  of  going  our  ways  dutifully  in 
the  dust  and  heat  of  the  world,  the  long- 
ing for  Arden  would  on  the  instant  be- 
come irresistible.  Come  what  might, 
the  hunger  for  perfect  comprehension 
and  fellowship,  the  thirst  for  the  beauty 
and  repose  of  the  deep  woods,  must  be 
satisfied,  and  forsaking  whatever  was  in 
hand  we  fled  incontinently  across  the  in- 
visible boundaries  into  that  other  and 
diviner  country.  No  sooner  had  the 
Poet  made  his  confession  than  we  has- 
tened to  make  ours,  and,  without  further 
consideration,  we  resolved  the  very  next 
day  to  shake  the  dust  from  our  feet  and 
escape  into  Arden.  This  question  set- 
tled, a  great  gaiety  seized  us,  and  we 
began  to  plan  new  journeys  for  the  years 
to  come ;  journeys  which  had  this  pecu- 
liar charm  —  that  they  belonged  to  a  few 
17  257 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

kindred  spirits  ;  the  world  knows  nothing 
of  them,  and  when  some  obscure  refer- 
ence brings  them  to  mind,  smiles  its 
sceptical  smile,  and  goes  on  with  its 
money-getting.  Rosalind  drew  from 
its  hiding-place  the  chart  of  this  world 
of  the  imagination  which  we  were  given 
to  studying  on  long  winter  evenings,  and 
of  which  only  a  few  copies  exist.  These 
charts  are  among  the  few  things  not  to 
be  had  for  money ;  if  they  fall  into  alien 
hands  they  are  incomprehensible.  It  is 
true  of  them,  as  of  the  books  which 
describe  the  Forest  of  Arden,  that  they 
have  a  kind  of  second  meaning,  only  to 
be  discerned  by  those  whose  eyes  detect 
the  deeper  things  of  life.  It  is  another 
peculiarity  of  these  charts  that  while 
science  has  indirectly  done  not  a  little  for 
their  completeness,  the  work  of  prepar- 
ing them  has  fallen  entirely  into  the  hands 
of  the  poets ;  not,  of  course,  the  writers 
of  verse  alone,  but  those  who  have  had 
the  vision  of  the  great  world  as  it  lies 
in  the  imagination,  and  who  have  heard 
258 


An  Undiscovered  Island 

that    deep    and    incommunicable    music 
which  sings  at  the  heart  of  it. 

Rosalind  spread  this  chart  on  the 
table,  and  we  drew  our  chairs  around  it, 
noting  now  one  and  now  another  of  the 
famous  places  of  which  all  men  have 
heard,  but  which  to  most  men  are  mere 
figments  of  dreams.  Here,  for  instance, 
in  a  certain  latitude  plainly  marked  on 
the  margin,  is  that  calm  sweet  land  of 
the  Phasacians  where  reigns  Alcinoiis  the 
great-souled  king,  and  the  white-armed 
Nausicaa  sings  after  her  bath  on  the 
river's  brink  : 

Without  the  palace  court  and  near  the  gate 
A  spacious  garden  of  four  acres  lay  ; 
A  hedge  inclosed  it  round,  and  lofty  trees 
Flourished  in  generous  growth  within  —  the  pear 
And  the  pomegranate,  and  the  apple  tree 
With  its  fair  fruitage,  and  the  luscious  fig, 
And  olive  always  green.     The  fruit  they  bear 
Falls  not,  nor  ever  fails  in  winter  time 
Nor  summer,  but  is  yielded  all  the  year. 
The  ever-blowing  west  wind  causes  some 
To  swell  and  some  to  ripen  ;  pear  succeeds 
To  pear  ;  to  apple,  apple,  grape  to  grape, 
Fig  ripens  after  fig. 

259 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

Here,  as  Rosalind  moves  her  finger, 
lies  the  valley  of  Avalon,  whither  Arthur 
went  to  heal  his  overmastering  sorrow, 
and  where  the  air  is  always  sweet  with 
the  smell  of  apple  blossoms.  In  this 
deep  wood  lives  Merlin,  still  weaving,  as 
of  old,  the  magic  spells.  There  is  the 
castle  of  the  Grail,  and  as  our  eyes  fall 
on  it,  suddenly  there  comes  a  hush,  and 
we  seem  to  hear  the  sublime  antiphony, 
choir  answering  choir  in  heavenly  melody, 
as  Parsifal  raises  the  cup,  and  the  light 
from  above  smites  it  into  sudden  glory. 
We  are  travelling  eastward,  touching  here 
and  there  those  names  which  belong  only 
to  the  greatest  poetry,  when  Rosalind's 
finger — the  index  of  our  wanderings  — 
suddenly  pauses  and  rests  on  an  island, 
not  large,  as  it  lies  amid  that  silent  sea, 
but  wonderful  above  all  islands  to  which 
thought  has  ever  wandered  or  where 
imagination  has  ever  made  its  home. 
Under  the  light  of  the  lamp,  with  Rosa- 
lind's face  bending  over  it,  no  island  ever 
slept  in  a  deeper  calm  than  this  little  cir- 
260 


An  Undiscovered  Island 

cle  of  land  about  which  the  greatest  of 
the  poets  once  evoked  the  most  marvel- 
lous of  tempests.  Rosalind's  finger  does 
not  move  from  that  magical  point,  and, 
peering  on  the  chart,  our  eyes  suddenly 
meet,  and  a  single  thought  is  in  them  all. 
Why  not  postpone  Arden  for  the  moment 
and  explore  the  isle  of  Miranda's  morning 
beauty  and  Prospero's  magical  wisdom  ? 
"  Why  not  ?  "  says  Rosalind,  speak- 
ing aloud,  and  instead  of  answering  her 
question  the  Poet  and  I  are  wonder- 
ing why  we  have  never  gone  before. 
Straightway  we  fall  to  studying  the  map 
more  closely ;  we  note  the  latitude  and 
longitude ;  it  is  but  a  little  way  from 
the  mainland  where  stretches  the  green 
expanse  of  the  Forest  of  Arden.  We 
might  have  gone  long  ago  if  we  had  been 
a  little  more  adventurous ;  at  least  we 
think  we  might  at  the  first  blush ;  but 
when  we  talk  it  over,  as  we  proceed  to 
do  when  Rosalind  has  rolled  up  the 
chart  and  put  it  in  its  place,  we  are  not 

quite  so  sure  about  it.     It  is  one  of  the 
261 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

singular  things  about  this  kind  of  jour- 
neying that  one  learns  how  to  travel  and 
where  to  go  only  by  personal  observation. 
Before  we  went  to  Arden,  for  instance, 
we  had  no  clear  knowledge  of  any  of 
these  countries ;  we  had  often  heard  of 
them ;  their  names  were  often  on  our  lips  ; 
but  they  were  not  real  to  us.  That 
happy  day  when  Arden  ceased  to  be  a 
dream  to  us  was  the  beginning  of  a  rapid 
growth  of  knowledge  concerning  these 
invisible  countries ;  one  by  one  they 
seemed  to  rise  within  the  circle  of  our 
expanding  experience  until  we  became 
aware  that  we  were  masters  of  a  new  kind 
of  geography.  That  delightful  discovery 
was  not  many  years  behind  us,  but  this  new 
knowledge  had  already  become  so  much  a 
part  of  our  lives  that  we  often  confused  it 
with  the  knowledge  of  commoner  things. 
That  night,  before  we  parted,  our 
plans  were  completed;  on  the  morrow, 
when  night  came,  the  fire  on  the  hearth 
would  be  unlighted,  for  we  should  be  on 

Prospero's  island. 

262 


An  Undiscovered  Island 
II 

O,  rejoice 

Beyond  a  common  joy  ;  and  set  it  down 
With  gold  on  lasting  pillars  :  in  one  voyage 
Did  Claribel  her  husband  find  at  Tunis  ; 
And  Ferdinand,  her  brother,  found  a  wife 
Where  he  himself  was  lost ;    Prospero,  his  dukedom, 
In  a  poor  isle;  and  all  of  us,  ourselves, 
Where  no  man  was  his  own. 

"  HONEST  Gonzalo  never  spoke  truer 
word,"  said  the  Poet,  answering  Rosa- 
lind, who  had  been  quoting  the  old  coun- 
sellor's summing  up  of  the  common 
good  fortune  on  the  island  when  Pros- 
pero dispelled  his  enchantments  and  the 
shipwrecked  company  found  themselves 
saved  as  by  miracle.  It  was  our  first 
evening  on  the  island ;  one  of  those 
memorable  nights  when  all  things  seem 
born  anew  into  some  larger  heritage  of 
beauty.  The  moon  hung  low  over  the 
quiet  sea,  sleeping  now  under  the  spell 
of  the  summer  night,  as  if  no  storm  had 
ever  vexed  it.  So  silent,  so  hushed  was 
263 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

it  that  but  for  the  soft  ripple  on  the  sand 
we  should  have  thought  it  calmed  in 
eternal  repose.  Far  off  along  the  hori- 
zon the  stars  hung  motionless  as  the  sea; 
overhead  they  shone  out  of  the  measure- 
less depths  of  space  with  a  soft  and  sol- 
emn splendour.  Not  a  branch  moved  on 
the  great  trees  behind  us,  folded  now  in 
the  universal  mystery  of  the  night.  The 
little  stretch  of  beach,  over  whose  yellow 
sands  the  song  of  the  invisible  Ariel  once 
floated,  lay  in  the  soft  light  fit  for  the 
feet  of  fairies,  or  the  gentle  advance  and 
retreat  of  the  sea.  The  very  air,  suf- 
fused through  all  that  vast  immensity 
with  a  mysterious  light,  seemed  like  a 
dream  of  peace. 

In  such  a  place,  at  such  an  hour,  one 
shrinks  from  speech  as  from  the  word 
that  breaks  the  spell.  When  one  is  so 
much  a  part  of  the  sublime  order  of 
things  that  the  universal  movement  of 
force  that  streams  through  all  things  em- 
braces and  thrills  him  with  the  conscious- 
ness of  common  fellowship,  how  vain  is 
264 


An  Undiscovered  Island 

all  human  utterance !  The  greatest  of 
poems,  the  sublime  harmony  in  which 
all  things  are  folded,  has  never  been 
spoken,  and  never  will  be.  No  lyre  in 
any  human  hand  will  ever  make  those 
divine  chords  audible.  The  poets  hear 
them,  know  them,  live  by  them ;  but  no 
verse  contains  them.  So  much  a  part  of 
that  wondrous  night  were  we  that  any 
speech  would  have  seemed  like  a  severance 
of  things  that  were  one ;  all  the  deep  mean- 
ing of  the  hour  was  clear  to  us  because  we 
were  included  in  it.  How  long  we  sat  in 
that  silence  I  do  not  know ;  we  had  for- 
gotten the  world  out  of  which  we  had 
escaped,  and  the  route  by  which  we  came  ; 
we  knew  only  that  an  infinite  sea  of 
beauty  and  wonder  rippled  on  the  beach 
at  our  feet,  and  that  over  us  the  heavens 
were  as  a  delicate  veil,  beyond  which 
diviner  loveliness  seemed  waiting  on  the 
verge  of  birth. 

It  was  Rosalind  who  spoke  at  last,  and 
spoke  in  words  which  flashed  the  human 
truth  of  the  hour  into  our  thoughts.     On 
265 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

this  island  we  had  found  ourselves ;  so 
often  lost,  at  times  so  long  forgotten,  in 
the  busy  world  that  lay  afar  off.  And 
then  we  fell  a-talkingof  the  island  and  of 
all  the  kindred  places  where  men  have 
found  homes  for  their  souls;  sweet  and 
fragrant  retreats  whence  the  noise  of 
strife  and  toil  died  into  a  faint  murmur, 
or  was  lost  in  some  vast  silence.  At 
Milan,  Prospero  found  the  cares  of  state 
so  irksome,  the  joy  of  "  secret  studies  " 
so  alluring,  that,  despairing  of  harmonis- 
ing things  so  alien,  he  took  "refuge  with 
his  books,  and  found  his  "  library  was 
dukedom  large  enough."  But  the  prob- 
lem was  not  solved  by  this  surrender ; 
out  of  the  library,  as  out  of  the  dukedom, 
he  was  set  adrift,  homeless  and  friendless, 
until  he  set  foot  on  the  island  where  he 
was  to  rule  with  no  divided  sway.  Here 
was  his  true  home ;  here  the  spirits  of 
the  air  and  the  powers  of  the  earth  were 
his  ministers  ;  here  his  word  seemed  part 
of  the  elemental  order;  he  spoke  and  it 
was  done,  for  the  winds  and  the  sea 
266 


An  Undiscovered  Island 

obeyed  him.  And  when,  in  the  work- 
ing out  of  destiny  which  he  himself  di- 
rected, he  returns  to  the  dukedom  from 
which  he  had  been  thrust  out,  he  is  no 
longer  the  Prospero  of  ineffective  days. 
Henceforth  he  will  rule  Milan  as  he 
rules  the  quiet  dukedom  of  his  books ; 
he  has  become  a  master  of  life  and  time, 
and  his  sovereignty  will  never  again  be 
disputed. 

Prospero  did  not  find  the  island ;  he 
created  it.  It  was  the  necessity  of  his 
life  that  he  should  fashion  this  bit  of 
territory  out  of  the  great  sea,  that  here 
his  soul  might  learn  its  strength  and  win 
its  freedom ;  that  here,  far  from  duke- 
dom and  courtiers,  he  might  discover 
that  a  great  soul  creates  its  own  world 
and  lives  its  own  life.  Milan  may  cast 
him  out,  as  did  Florence  another  of  his 
kind,  but  this  human  rejection  will  but 
bring  him  into  that  empire  which  no 
enmity  may  touch,  in  the  calm  of  whose 
divinely  ordered  government  treasons 
are  unknown.  No  man  finds  himself 
267 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

until  he  has  created  a  world  for  his  own 
soul ;  a  world  apart  from  care  and  weak- 
ness and  the  confusions  of  strife,  in  which 
the  faiths  that  inspire  him  and  the  ideals 
that  lead  him  are  the  great  and  lasting 
verities.  To  this  world-building  all  the 
great  poetic  minds  are  driven ;  within 
this  invisible  empire  alone  can  they  rec- 
oncile the  life  that  surrounds  them  with 
the  life  that  floats  like  a  dream  before 
them.  No  great  mind  is  ever  at  rest 
until  in  some  way  the  Real  and  the  Ideal 
are  found  to  be  one.  Literature  is  full 
of  these  beautiful  homes  of  the  soul, 
reared  without  the  sound  of  chisel  or 
hammer  by  the  magic  of  the  Imagina- 
tion —  divinest  of  the  faculties,  since  it 
is  the  only  one  which  creates.  The 
other  faculties  observe,  record,  compare, 
combine ;  the  imagination  alone  uses  the 
brush,  the  chisel,  or  the  pen ! 

If  one  were  to  record  these  kingdoms 

of  the   mind,   how  long  and   luminous 

would  be   the  catalogue  !     The  golden 

age  and  the  fabled  Atlantis  of  the  elder 

268 


An  Undiscovered  Island 

poets  ;  the  "  Republic "  of  the  broad- 
browed  Athenian ;  the  secret  gardens, 
impregnable  castles,  sweet  and  inacces- 
sible retreats  of  the  mediaeval  fancy  ;  the 
Paradise  of  Dante  ;  the  enchanting  world 
through  which  the  Fairy  Queen  moves  ; 
the  "Utopia"  of  the  noble  More;  the 
Forest  of  Arden  —  what  visions  of  peace, 
what  glimpses  of  beauty,  accompany 
every  name  !  To  all  these  worlds  of 
supernal  loveliness  there  is  a  single  key  ; 
fortunate  among  men  are  they  who  hold 
it! 

Ill 

Be  not  afraid;  the  isle  is  full  of  noises, 

Sounds  and  sweet  airs  that  give  delight  and  hurt  not. 

Sometimes  a  thousand  twanging  instruments 

Will  hum  about  mine  ears  ;  and  sometimes  voices, 

That,  if  I  then  had  waked  after  long  sleep, 

Will  make  me  sleep  again;  and  then,  in  dreaming, 

The  clouds  methought  would  open,  and  show  riches 

Ready  to  drop  upon  me  ;   that,  when  I  waked, 

J  cried  to  dream  again. 

WHEN  the  sun  rose  the  next  morning, 
we  rose  with  it,  eager  to  explore  our  little 
269 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

world  about  which  the  sea  never  ceased 
to  sing  its  mighty  hymn  of  solitude  and 
mystery.  There  was  something  im- 
pressive in  the  consciousness  of  our 
isolation ;  between  us  and  any  noise 
of  human  occupation  the  waters  were 
stretched  as  a  barrier  against  which  all 
sound  died  into  silence.  There  was 
something  enchanting  in  the  beauty  and 
strangeness  of  this  tiny  continent,  un- 
reported  by  any  geography,  unmarked 
on  any  chart  save  that  which  a  few  pos- 
sess as  a  kind  of  sacred  heritage,  un- 
travelled  as  yet  by  our  eager  feet.  There 
was  something  thrilling  in  the  associa- 
tions that  touched  the  island  with  such 
a  light  as  never  fell  from  sun  or  star. 
With  beating  hearts  we  set  out  on  that 
wondrous  exploration.  Who  does  not 
remember  the  thrill  of  the  first  discovery 
of  a  new  world ;  that  joy  of  the  soul  in 
possession  of  a  great  new  truth  which 
passes  all  speech  ?  There  are  hours  in 
this  troubled  life  when  the  mists  are 
lifted  and  float  away  like  faint  clouds 
270 


An  Undiscovered  Island 

against  the  blue,  and  the  great  world 
lies  like  a  splendid  vision  before  us,  and 
"  the  immeasurable  heavens  break  open 
,  to  the  highest,"  and  in  a  sudden  rift  of 
human  limitation  the  whole  sublime 
order  opens  before  us,  sings  to  us  out 
of  the  fathomless  depths  of  its  harmony, 
thrills  us  with  a  sudden  sense  of  God 
and  of  the  undiscovered  range  and 
splendour  of  our  lives  ;  and  when  they 
have  passed,  these  hours  remain  with 
us  in  the  afterglow  of  clearer  vision 
and  deeper  faith.  Such  hours  are  the 
peculiar  joy  of  those  who  hold  the  key 
of  the  imagination  in  their  grasp  and 
are  able  to  unlock  the  gate  of  dreams, 
or  make  themselves  the  companion  of 
the  great  explorers  in  the  realms  of 
truth  and  beauty.  These  are  the  se- 
cret joys  which  people  solitude  and 
make  the  quiet  days  one  long  draught 
of  inspiration. 

In    such    a    mood    our   quest   began 
and  ended.     We  skirted  the  beach  ;  we 
plunged  deep  into    the  recesses   of  the 
27: 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

woods  ;  we  stretched  ourselves  on  the 
broad  expanse  of  greensward  in  the  shade 
of  the  great  boughs ;  we  followed  the 
rivulet  to  the  hushed  and  shadowy  sol- 
itude where  it  issued  from  the  moss- 
grown  rock  ;  wherever  we  bent  our  steps 
the  song  of  the  sea  followed  us,  and  the 
day  was  calm  and  cool  as  with  its  breadth 
and  freshness.  The  island  had  its  own 
beauty  ;  the  beauty  of  virgin  forests  and 
untrodden  paths,  of  a  certain  fragrant 
sweetness  gathered  in  years  of  untroubled 
solitude,  of  a  certain  pastoral  repose  such 
as  comes  to  Nature  when  man  is  remote ; 
but  that  which  gave  us  the  thrill  of 
something  strangely  sweet  and  satisfying, 
something  apart  from  the  world  we  had 
left,  was  not  anything  we  saw  with  eye. 
All  that  was  visible  was  beautiful,  but 
it  was  a  loveliness  not  unfamiliar ;  it 
was  the  invisible  continually  breaking 
in  upon  our  consciousness  that  laid  us 
under  a  spell.  We  were  conscious  of 
something  lovelier  than  we  saw  ;  a  world 
not  to  be  discerned  by  sight,  but  real 
272 


An  Undiscovered  Island 

and  unspeakably  beautiful  to  the  soul. 
Even  to  Caliban  the  isle  was  "  full  of 
noises  ; "  "  sounds  and  sweet  airs  that 
give  delight "  did  not  escape  his  brutish 
sense.  Sometimes  "  a  thousand  twan- 
gling  instruments"  hummed  about  his 
ears  ;  sometimes  voices  whose  soft  music 
was  akin  to  sleep  floated  about  him ; 
and  sometimes  the  clouds  "  would  open 
and  show  riches  ready  to  drop  upon " 
him.  There  was  a  sweet  enchantment 
in  the  air  to  which  the  dullest  could  not 
be  indifferent.  It  hovered  over  us  like 
some  finer  beauty,  just  beyond  the  vis- 
ion of  sense,  and  yet  as  real,  almost  as 
tangible,  as  the  things  we  touched  and 
saw. 

Alone  as  we  were  upon  the  little 
island,  we  felt  the  diviner  world  of  which 
that  tiny  bit  of  earth  was  part ;  we  knew 
the  higher  beauty  of  which  all  that  visi- 
ble loveliness  was  but  a  sign  and  symbol. 
The  song  of  the  sea,  breathed  from  we 
knew  not  what  depths  of  space,  was  not 
more  real  than  this  melody,  haunting  the 

18  273 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

island  and  dropping  from  the  air  like 
blossoms  from  a  ripening  tree.  Turn 
where  we  would,  this  music  went  with 
us  ;  it  mingled  with  the  murmur  of  the 
trees  ;  it  blended  with  the  limpid  note 
of  the  rivulet ;  it  melted  with  the  breeze 
that  swept  across  the  grassy  places.  All 
day,  and  for  many  another  day,  we  were 
conscious  of  a  larger  world  of  harmony 
and  beauty  folding  in  our  little  world  of 
tree  and  soil;  we  lived  in  it  as  freely 
and  made  it  ours  as  fully  as  the  bit 
of  earth  beneath  our  feet.  Through  all 

o 

our  talk  this  thread  of  melody  was  run, 
and  our  very  thoughts  were  set  to  this 
unfailing  music.  In  those  days  the  Poet 
wrote  no  verses ;  what  need  of  verse 
when  poetry  itself,  that  deep  and  breath- 
ing beauty  of  the  soul  of  things,  filled 
every  hour  and  overflowed  all  the  chan- 
nels of  thought  and  sense  ! 

But  if  we  were  dumb  in  the  hearing 

of  a  music  beyond  our  mastery,  we  were 

not  blind  to    the    parable   conveyed    in 

every  sound  and  sight ;    in   those  deli- 

274 


An  Undiscovered  Island 

clous  days  and  nights  a  great  truth 
cleared  itself  forever  in  our  minds.  We 
know  henceforth  how  all  dream-worlds, 
all  beautiful  hopes  and  visions  and 
ideals,  are  fashioned.  They  are  not  of 
human  making;  they  but  make  visible 
things  which  already  exist  unseen  ;  they 
but  make  audible  sounds  which  are 
already  vocal  unheard.  He  who  dreams, 
sleeps,  and  another  fills  the  chamber  of 
his  brain  with  moving  figures ;  he  who 
aspires,  hopes  and  believes,  unlocks  the 
door,  and  another  world,  already  fur- 
nished with  beauty,  lies  before  him. 
Our  ideals  are  God's  realities.  We 
build  the  new  worlds  of  our  knowledge 
out  of  the  dust  of  worlds  already  swing- 
ing in  space  ;  the  stately  homes  of  our 
imagination  rise  on  foundations  of  the 
common  earth.  Prospero's  island  was 
made  of  common  soil ;  flowers,  trees, 
and  grass  grow  on  it  as  they  grow  about 
the  homes  of  work  and  care.  The  same 
sea  washes  its  shores  which  beats  upon 
the  coasts  of  ancient  continents  ;  over  it 
275 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

bends  that  same  sky  which  enfolds  all 
the  generations  of  men.  Prospero's 
island  is  no  mirage,  hovering  unreal  and 
evanescent  on  the  far  horizon  ;  no  im- 
palpable phantom  of  reality  floating  like 
some  strayed  flower  on  the  lovely  sea  of 
dreams.  It  is  as  solid  as  the  earth,  as 
real  as  the  soul  that  fashioned  it.  No 
miracle  was  wrought,  no  law  violated,  in 
its  making.  Beautiful,  true,  and  endur- 
ing, it  lies  upon  the  waters  ;  a  haven 
for  men  in  the  storms  that  beat  upon 
the  high  seas  of  this  troubled  life. 
That  which  is  strange  and  wonderful 
about  it  is  the  music  which  forever 
hovers  about  it;  that  which  makes  it 
enchanted  ground  is  the  sound  of  voices 
sweet  as  the  quietness  of  sleep,  the  vis- 
ion of  clouds  ready  to  drop  unmeas- 
ured riches !  An  island  solid  as  the 
great  world  out  of  which  it  was  fash- 
ioned, but  sweet  with  heavenly  voices  and 
sublime  with  heavenly  visions  —  such  is 
the  island  of  Prospero's  enchantments. 
And  such  are  all  true  ideals,  dreams, 
276 


An  Undiscovered  Island 

and  aspirations.  They  have  their  roots 
in  the  same  earth  whence  the  commonest 
weed  grows  ;  but  the  light  and  life  of  the 
heavens  are  theirs  also.  In  them  the 
visible  and  the  invisible  are  harmonised  ; 
in  them  the  real  finds  its  completion  in 
the  ideal.  The  common  earth  is  com- 
mon only  to  those  who  are  deaf  to  the 
voices  and  blind  to  the  visions  which 
wait  on  it  and  make  its  flight  a  music 
and  its  path  a  light.  Out  of  these  com- 
mon things  the  great  artists  build  the 
homes  of  our  souls.  Rock-founded  are 
they,  and  broad-based  on  our  mother 
earth ;  but  they  have  windows  skyward, 
and  there,  above  the  tumult  of  the  little 
earth,  the  great  worlds  sing. 


IV 

You  do  yet  taste 

Some  subtilities  o'  the  isle,  that  will  not  let  you 
Believe  things  certain. 

ONE  brilliant  morning,  the  sky  cloud- 
less and  the  sea  singing  under  a  freshen- 
277 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

ing  wind,  we  sat  under  a  great  tree,  with  a 
bit  of  soft  sward  before  us,  and  talked 
of  Prospero.  In  that  place  the  master 
presence  was  always  with  us ;  there  was 
never  an  hour  in  which  we  did  not  feel 
the  spell  of  his  creative  spirit.  We  were 
always  secretly  hoping  that  we  should 
come  upon  him  in  some  secluded  place, 
his  staff  unbroken,  and  his  book  un- 
drowned.  But  what  need  had  we  of 
sight  while  the  island  encompassed  us 
and  the  multitudinous  music  filled  the 
air? 

On  that  fair  morning  the  magical 
beauty  of  the  world  possessed  us,  and 
our  talk,  blending  unconsciously  with 
the  music  of  the  invisible  choir,  was 
broken  by  long  pauses.  The  Poet  was 
saying  that  the  world  thought  of  Pros- 
pero as  a  magician,  a  wonder-worker, 
whose  thought  borrowed  the  fleetness  of 
Ariel,  whose  staff  unleashed  the  tempest 
and  sent  it  back  to  its  hiding-place  when 
its  work  was  done,  and  in  whose  book 
were  written  all  manner  of  charms  and 
278 


An  Undiscovered  Island 

incantations.  This  was  the  Prospero 
whom  Caliban  knew,  and  this  is  the 
Prospero  whom  the  world  remembers. 
"  For  myself,"  said  he,  "  I  often  try  to 
forget  the  miracles,  so  stained  and  de- 
filed seem  the  great  artists  by  this 
homage  which  is  only  another  form  of 
materialism.  The  search  for  signs  and 
wonders  is  always  vulgar ;  it  defiles 
every  great  spirit  who  compromises  with 
it,  because  it  puts  the  miracle  in  place  of 
the  truth.  That  which  gives  a  wonder 
its  only  dignity  and  significance  is  the 
spiritual  power  which  it  evidences  and 
the  spiritual  knowledge  which  it  conveys. 
To  the  greatest  of  teachers  this  hunger 
for  miracles  was  a  bitter  experience  ;  he 
who  came  with  the  mystery  of  the 
heavenly  love  in  his  soul  must  have 
felt  defiled  by  the  homage  rendered  as  to 
a  necromancer,  a  doer  of  strange  things. 
The  curiosity  which  draws  men  to  the 
masters  of  the  arts  has  no  real  honour  in 
it;  the  only  recognition  which  is  real 
and  lasting  is  that  which  springs  from 
279 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

the  perception  of  truth  and  beauty  dis- 
closed anew  in  some  noble  form.  Pros- 
pero  was  a  magician,  but  he  was  much 
more  and  much  greater  than  a  wonder- 
worker; not  Caliban,  but  Ferdinand  and 
Miranda  and  Gonzalo,  are  the  true  judges 
of  his  power.  Prospero  was  the  master 
spirit  of  the  world  which  moved  about 
him.  He  alone  knew  its  secret  and  used 
its  forces ;  on  him  alone  rested  the  gov- 
ernment of  this  marvellous  realm.  His 
command  had  stirred  the  seas  and  sent 
the  winds  abroad  which  brought  Milan 
and  Naples  within  his  hand ;  at  his  bid- 
ding the  isle  was  full  of  sounds  ;  Ariel 
served  him  with  tireless  devotion  ;  he  read 
the  sweet  thought  that  flashed  from 
Miranda  to  Ferdinand ;  he  unearthed 
the  base  conspiracy  of  Caliban,  Trinculo, 
and  Stephano  ;  he  read  the  treacherous 
hearts  of  Antonio  and  Sebastian ;  in  his 
hand  all  these  threads  were  gathered, 
and  upon  all  these  lives  his  will  was 
imposed.  In  that  majestic  drama  of 
human  character  and  action,  powers  of 
280 


An  Undiscovered  Island 

air  and  earth,  the  highest  and  the  lowest 
alike  serving,  it  is  a  lofty  soul  and  a 
noble  mind  possessed  by  a  great  pur- 
pose, which  control  and  triumph.  The 
magical  arts  are  simply  the  means  by 
which  a  great  end  is  served  ;  when  the 
work  is  accomplished,  the  staff  will  be 
broken  and  the  book  sunk  beneath 
the  sea,  lower  than  any  sounding  of 
plummet." 

"  Yes,"  said  Rosalind  impulsively, 
carrying  the  thought  another  step  for- 
ward, "  Prospero  deals  with  natural, 
substantial  things  for  great,  real  ends, 
not  with  magical  powers  for  fantastic 
purposes.  When  it  falls  in  his  way, 
he  evokes  forces  so  unusual  that  they 
seem  supernatural  to  those  who  do  not 
understand  his  power,  but  the  end  which 
lies  before  him  is  always  real,  enduring, 
and  noble  ;  something  which  belongs  to 
the  eternal  order  of  things." 

"  For  that  matter,"  I  interrupted,  "  it 
grows  more  and  more  difficult  to  distin- 
guish between  the  forces  and  the  achieve- 
281 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

ments  that  we  have  thought  real  and 
possible,  and  those  which  have  seemed 
only  dreams  and  visions.  Men  are  do- 
ing things  every  day  by  mechanical 
agencies  which  the  most  famous  of  the 
old  magicians  failed  to  accomplish.  The 
visions  of  great  minds  are  realities  dis- 
covered a  little  in  advance  of  their  uni- 
versal recognition." 

"As  I  was  saying,"  continued  the 
Poet,  "  most  men  hold  Prospero  to  be 
a  mere  wonder-worker,  a  magician  who 
puts  his  arts  on  and  off  with  his  robe ; 
they  do  not  know  that  he  stands  for  the 
greatest  force  in  the  world.  For  the 
Imagination  is  not  only  the  inspiring 
leader  of  men  in  their  strange  journey 
through  life,  but  their  nearest,  most  con- 
stant, and  most  practical  helper  and  sus- 
tainer.  That  our  souls  would  have 
starved  without  the  Imagination  we  are 
all,  I  think,  agreed ;  without  Imagination 
we  should  have  seen  and  remembered 
nothing  on  our  long  journey  but  the 
path  at  our  feet.  The  heavens  above 
282 


An  Undiscovered  Island 

us,  the  great,  mysterious  world  about  us, 
would  have  meant  no  more  to  us  than 
to  the  birds  and  the  beasts  that  have 
perished  without  thought  or  memory  of 
'the  beauty  which  has  encompassed  them. 
All  this  the  Imagination  has  interpreted 
for  us.  It  has  fashioned  life  for  us,  and 
the  dullest  mind  that  plods  and  counts 
and  dies  is  ministered  to  and  enriched 
by  it.  It  does  magical  things.  It  puts 
on  its  robe  and  opens  its  book,  and 
straightway  the  heavens  rain  melody  and 
drop  riches  upon  us.  But  this  is  its 
play.  In  these  displays  of  its  art  it 
hints  at  the  resources  at  its  command, 
at  the  marvels  it  will  yet  bring  to  pass. 
Meanwhile  it  has  made  the  earth  hospi- 
table for  us  and  taught  men  how  to  live 
above  the  brutes." 

The  Poet  stopped  abruptly,  as  if  he 
had  been  caught  in  the  act  of  preaching, 
and  Rosalind  gave  the  sermon  a  delight- 
ful ending. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  "  if  love  would 
be  possible  without  the  Imagination? 
283 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

For  the  heart  of  love  is  the  perception 
of  a  deep  and  genuine  fellowship  of  the 
soul,  and  the  end  of  love  is  the  happiness 
which  comes  through  ministry.  Could 
we  understand  a  human  soul  or  serve  it 
if  the  Imagination  did  not  aid  us  with 
its  wonderful  light?  Is  it  not  the 
Imagination  which  enables  me  to  put 
myself  in  another's  place,  and  so  to 
sympathise  with  another's  sorrow  and 
share  another's  joy  ?  Could  a  man  feel 
the  sufferings  of  a  class  or  a  race  or  the 
world  if  the  Imagination  did  not  open 
these  things  to  him  ?  And  if  he  did 
not  understand,  could  he  serve  ? " 

No  one  answered  these  questions,  for 
they  made  us  aware  on  the  instant  how 
dependent  are  all  the  deep  and  beautiful 
relations  of  life  on  this  wonderful  faculty. 
But  for  this  "  master  light  of  all  our  see- 
ing," how  small  a  circle  of  light  would 
lie  about  our  feet,  how  vast  a  darkness 
would  engulf  the  world ! 


284 


An  Undiscovered  Island 


O  wonder  ! 

How  many  goodly  creatures  are  there  here ! 
How  beauteous  mankind  is !     O  brave  new  world, 
That  has  such  people  in  't ! 

WE  had  never  thought  of  the  island 
in  the  old  days  save  as  lashed  by  tem- 
pests ;  but  now  the  suns  rose  and  set, 
dawn  wore  its  shining  veil  and  night  its 
crest  of  stars  and  not  a  cloud  darkened 
the  sky ;  we  seemed  to  be  in  the  heart 
of  a  vast  and  changeless  calm.  There 
was  no  monotony  in  the  unbroken  suc- 
cession of  the  days,  but  the  changes  were 
wrought  by  light,  not  by  darkness.  The 
singing  of  the  sea,  never  rising  into  those 
shrill  upper  notes  which  bode  disaster, 
nor  sinking  into  the  deep  lower  tones 
through  which  the  awful  thunder  of  the 
elements  breaks,  came  to  us  as  out  of  the 
depths  of  an  infinite  repose.  The  youth 
of  an  untroubled  world  was  in  it.  The 
joy  of  effortless  activities  breathed  through 
285 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

it.  We  felt  that  we  were  once  more  in 
the  morning  of  the  world's  day,  and  hope 
gave  the  keynote  to  all  our  thought. 
Life  is  divided  between  hope  and  mem- 
ory ;  when  memory  holds  the  chief 
place,  the  shadows  are  lengthening  and 
the  day  declining. 

It  was  one  of  the  pleasures  of  the  island 
that  we  were  alone  upon  it.  There  was 
no  trace  of  any  other  human  occupation, 
although  we  never  forgot  those  who  had 
been  before  us  in  these  enchanting  scenes. 
One  morning,  when  we  had  been  talking 
about  the  delight  of  seclusion,  Rosalind 
said  that,  although  the  silence  and  repose 
were  really  medicinal,  people  had  never 
seemed  so  attractive  to  her  as  now  when 
she  remembered  them  under  the  spell 
of  the  island.  It  seemed  to  her,  as  she 
recalled  them  now,  that  the  dull  people 
had  an  interest  of  their  own,  the  vulgar 
people  were  not  without  dignity,  nor  the 
bad  people  without  noble  qualities.  The 
Poet,  who  had  evidently  been  giving 
himself  the  luxury  of  dreaming,  declared 
286 


An  Undiscovered  Island 

that  we  cannot  know  people  save  through 
the  Imagination,  and  that  lack  of  Imagi- 
nation is  at  the  bottom  of  all  pessimism 
in  philosophy,  religion,  and  personal  ex- 
perience. A  fact  taken  by  itself  and 
detached  from  the  whole  of  which  it  is 
part  is  always  hard,  bare,  repellent ;  it 
must  be  seen  in  its  relations  if  one  would 
perceive  its  finer  and  inner  beauty ;  and 
it  is  the  Imagination  alone  which  sees 
things  as  a  whole.  The  theologians 
who  have  stuck  to  what  they  call  logic 
have  spread  a  veil  of  sadness  over  the 
world  which  the  poets  must  dissipate. 
"I  do  not  mean,"  he  added,  "  that  there 
are  not  sombre  and  terrible  aspects  of 
life,  but  that  these  things  have  been  sep- 
arated from  the  whole,  and  discerned 
only  in  their  bare  and  crushing  isolated 
force.  The  real  significance  of  things 
lies  in  their  interpretation,  and  the  Ima- 
gination is  the  only  interpreter." 

I  had  often  had  the  same  thought,  and 
found  infinite  consolation  in  it;  indeed,  I 
rested  in  it  so  securely  that  I  would  trust 
287 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

myself  with  far  more  confidence  to  the 
poets  than  to  the  logicians.  The  guess 
of  a  great  poetic  mind  has  as  solid  ground 
under  it  as  the  speculation  of  a  scientist ; 
it  differs  from  the  scientific  theory  only 
in  that  it  is  an  induction  from  a  greater 
number  of  significant  facts.  The  Imagi- 
nation follows  the  arc  until  it  "  comes  full 
circle ; "  observation  halts  and  waits  for 
further  sight. 

Rosalind  thought  it  very  beautiful  that 
Miranda's  first  glance  at  men  should 
have  discovered  them  so  fair  and  noble ; 
there  was  evil  enough  in  some  of  them, 
but  standing  beside  Prospero  Miranda* 
saw  only  the  "  brave  new  world."  I 
remembered  at  that  moment  that  even 
Caliban  discloses  to  the  Imagination  the 
germ  of  a  human  development ;  has  not 
another  poet  written  his  later  story 
and  recorded  the  birth  of  his  soul  ?  It 
was  characteristic  of  Rosalind  that  she 
should  see  the  people  in  the  marvellous 
drama  through  Miranda's  eyes,  and  that 
straightway  the  whole  world  of  men  and 
288 


An  Undiscovered  Island 

women  should  reveal  itself  to  her  in  a 
new  light.  "  To  see  the  good  in  people," 
she  said,  "is  not  so  much  a  matter  of 
charity  as  of  justice.  Our  judgments  of 
others  fail  oftenest  through  lack  of  Imagi- 
nation. We  fail  to  see  all  the  facts  ;  we 
see  one  or  two  very  clearly,  and  at  once 
form  an  opinion.  To  see  the  whole 
range  of  a  human  character  involves  an 
intellectual  and  spiritual  quality  which 
few  of  us  possess.  There  is  so  little 
justice  among  us  because  we  possess  so 
little  intelligence.  I  ought  not  to  pro- 
nounce judgment  on  a  fellow-creature 
until  I  know  all  that  enters  into  his  life ; 
until  I  can  measure  all  the  forces  of 
temptation  and  resistance;  until  I  can 
give  full  weight  to  all  the  facts  in  the 
case.  In  other  words,  I  am  never  in  a 
position  to  judge  another." 

The  Poet  evidently  assented  to  this 
statement,  and  I  could  not  gainsay  it ;  is 
there  not  the  very  highest  authority  for 
it  ?  The  time  will  come  when  there  will 
be  a  universal  surrender  of  that  authority 
19  289 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

which  we  have  been  usurping  all  these 
centuries.  We  shall  not  cease  to  recog- 
nise the  weakness  and  folly  of  men,  but 
we  shall  cease  to  decide  the  exact  measure 
of  personal  responsibility.  That  is  a  func- 
tion for  which  we  were  never  qualified ; 
it  is  a  task  which  belongs  to  infinite 
wisdom.  The  Imagination  helps  us  to 
understand  others  because  it  reveals 
the  vast  compass  of  the  influences  that 
converge  on  every  human  soul  like  the 
countless  rivulets  that  give  the  river  its 
volume  and  impetus.  To  look  at  men 
and  women  through  the  vision  of  the 
Imagination  is  to  see  a  very  different 
race  than  that  which  meets  our  common 
sight.  To  this  larger  vision,  within 
which  the  past  supplements  the  present, 
the  great  army  of  men  and  women  moves 
to  a  solemn  and  appealing  music.  The 
pathos  of  life  touches  them  with  an  in- 
describable dignity  ;  the  work  of  life  gives 
them  an  unspeakable  nobility.  Under 
the  meanest  exterior  there  are  one  knows 
not  what  tragedies  of  denied  hopes  and 
290 


An  Undiscovered  Island 

unappeased  longings  ;  behind  the  mask 
of  evil  there  shines  one  knows  not  what 
struggling  virtue  overborne  by  impulses 
that  flow  from  the  past  like  irresistible 
torrents.  Hidden  under  all  manner  of 
disguises  — weakness,  poverty,  ignorance, 
vulgarity  —  there  waits  a  world  of  ideals 
never  realised  but  never  lost ;  the  fire  of 
aspiration  burns  in  a  thousand  thousand 
souls  that  are  maimed  and  broken,  bruised 
and  baffled,  but  which  still  survive.  Is 
not  this  the  unquenchable  spark  that 
some  day,  in  freer  air,  shall  break  into 
white  flame  ?  It  is  the  Imagination  only 
that  discerns  in  a  thousand  contradic- 
tions, a  thousand  obscurities,  the  large 
design  to  be  revealed  when  the  ring  of 
the  hammer  has  ceased,  the  dust  of  toil 
been  laid,  the  scaffolding  removed,  and 
the  finished  structure  suddenly  discloses 
the  miracle  wrought  among  those  who 
were  blind. 


291 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 


VI 

I  might  call  him 

A  thing  divine  ;  for  nothing  natural 
I  ever  saw  so  noble. 

ROSALIND  was  deeply  interested  in 
Prospero ;  and  when  the  Poet  and  I  had 
talked  long  and  eagerly  about  him,  she 
often  threw  into  the  current  some  com- 
ment or  suggestion  that  gave  us  quite 
another  and  clearer  view  of  his  genius 
and  work.  But  at  heart  Rosalind's  chief 
interest  was  in  Miranda  and  Ferdinand. 
The  presence  of  Prospero  had  given  the 
island  a  solemn  and  far-reaching  signifi- 
cance in  the  geography  of  the  world ; 
Miranda  and  Ferdinand  had  left  an  un- 
failing and  beguiling  charm  about  the 
place.  If  we  could  have  known  the 
point  where  these  two  fresh  and  unspoiled 
natures  met,  I  am  confident  we  should 
have  stayed  there  by  common  but  un- 
spoken consent.  After  all  our  discover- 
ies in  this  mysterious  world,  youth  and 
292 


An  Undiscovered  Island 

love  remain  the  first  and  sweetest  in  our 
thoughts :  there  is  nothing  which  takes 
their  place,  nothing  which  imparts  their 
glow,  nothing  which  conveys  such  deep 
and  beautiful  hints  of  the  better  things  to 
be.  Miranda  had  known  no  companion- 
ship but  her  father's,  no  world  but  the 
sea-encircled  island,  no  life  but  the  se- 
cluded and  eventless  existence  in  that 
wave-swept  solitude.  She  had  had  the 
rare  good  fortune  to  ripen  under  the 
spell  of  pure,  high  thoughts,  and  so  near 
to  Nature  that  no  grosser  currents  of 
influence  had  borne  her  away  from  the 
most  wholesome  and  consoling  of  all 
companionships.  Ferdinand  came  from 
the  shows  of  royalty  and  small  falsities 
of  courtiers ;  the  palace,  the  city,  the 
crowded,  self-seeking,  hypocritical  world 
had  encompassed  him  from  youth,  robbed 
him  of  privacy,  cheated  him  of  that  re- 
pose which  brings  a  man  to  a  knowledge 
of  himself,  and  despoils  him  of  those 
sweet  and  tranquillising  memories  which 
grow  out  of  a  quiet  childhood  as  the  wild 
293 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

flowers    spring   along   the  edges  of  the 
woods. 

Coming,  one  from  the  stillness  of  a 
solitary  island  and  the  other  from  the 
roar  and  rush  of  a  court  and  a  city,  these 
two  met,  and  there  flashed  from  one  to 
the  other  that  sudden  and  thrilling  intel- 
ligence which  on  the  instant  gives  life  a 
new  interpretation  and  the  world  an  all- 
conquering  loveliness.  Nowhere,  surely, 
has  the  eternal  romance  found  more 
significant  setting  than  on  this  magical 
island,  about  which  sea  and  sky,  day  and 
night,  weave  and  weave  again  those  van- 
ishing webs  of  splendour  in  which  day- 
break and  evening  stars  are  snared  ;  with 
such  music  throbbing  on  the  air  as  invis- 
ible spirits  make  when  the  command  of 
the  master  is  on  them  !  Here,  surely, 
was  the  home  of  this  drama  of  the  soul, 
the  acting  of  which  on  the  troubled  stage 
of  life  is  a  perpetual  appeal  to  faith  and 
hope  and  joy  !  For  youth  and  love  are 
shining  words  in  the  vocabulary  of  the 
Imagination  —  words  which  contain  the 
294 


An  Undiscovered  Island 

deepest  of  present  and  predict  the  sweet- 
est of  future  happiness.  So  deeply  inter- 
woven is  the  real  significance  of  these 
words  with  the  Imagination  that,  sepa- 
rated from  it,  they  lose  all  their  magical 
glow  and  beauty.  Youth  moves  in  no 
narrow  territory ;  its  boundary  lines  fade 
out  into  infinity.  It  feels  no  iron  hand 
of  limitation  ;  it  discerns  no  impassable 
wall  of  restriction.  Life  stretches  away 
before  and  about  it  limitless  as  space  and 
full  of  unseen  splendours  as  the  stars  that 
crowd  and  brighten  it.  The  great  wings 
of  hope,  unbruised  yet  by  any  beatings 
of  the  later  tempests,  shine  through  the 
air,  lustrous  and  tireless,  as  if  all  flights 
were  possible.  And  far  off,  on  the  re- 
mote horizon  lines  where  sight  fails,  the 
mirage  of  dreams  dissolves  and  reappears 
in  a  thousand  alluring  forms. 

Love  knows  even  less  of  limitation  and 
infirmity.  Its  eyes,  sometimes  oblivious 
of  the  things  most  obvious,  pierce  the 
remotest  future,  read  the  innermost  soul, 
discern  the  last  and  highest  fruitions. 
295 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

The  seed  in  its  hand,  hard,  black,  un- 
broken, is  already  a  flower  to  its  thought ; 
out  of  the  bare,  stern  facts  of  the  present 
its  magical  touch  brings  one  knows  not 
what  of  joy  and  loveliness.  And  when 
youth  and  love  are  one,  the  heavens  are 
not  bright  enough  for  their  thoughts,  nor 
eternity  long  enough  for  their  deeds. 
Amid  the  shadows  of  life  they  seem  to 
have  caught  a  momentary  radiance  from 
beyond  the  clouds ;  amid  sorrows  and 
sins  and  all  manner  of  weariness  they  are 
the  recurring  vision  and  revelation  of  the 
eternal  order.  All  the  world  waits  on 
them  and  rejoices  in  them  ;  and  the  bit- 
ter knowledge  of  what  lies  before  the 
eager  feet,  waiting  with  passionate  hope 
on  the  threshold,  does  not  lessen  the  per- 
ennial interest  in  that  fair  picture ;  for  in 
youth  and  love  are  realised  the  universal 
ideals  of  men.  Youth  and  love  are  the 
mortal  synonyms  of  immortality;  all  that 
freshness  of  spirit,  buoyancy  of  strength, 
energy  of  hope,  boundlessness  of  joy, 
completeness  and  glory  of  life,  imply, 
296 


An  Undiscovered  Island 

are  typified  in  these  two  things,  always 
vanishing  and  yet  always  reappearing 
among  men.  Wearing  the  beautiful 
masks  of  youth  and  love,  the  gods  con- 
tinually revisit  the  earth,  and  in  their 
luminous  presence  faith  forever  rebuilds 
its  shattered  temples. 

That  which  makes  youth  and  love  so 
precious  to  us  is  the  play  they  give  to 
the  Imagination  ;  indeed,  the  better  part 
of  them  both  is  compounded  of  Imagina- 
tion. The  horizons  recede  from  their 
gaze  because  the  second  sight  of  Imagi- 
nation is  theirs  —  that  prescience  which 
pierces  the  mists  which  enfold  us,  and 
discerns  the  vaster  world  through  which 
we  move  for  the  most  part  with  halting 
feet  and  blinded  eyes.  Youth  knows 
that  it  was  born  to  life  and  power  and 
exhaustless  resources ;  love  knows  that 
it  has  found  and  shall  forever  possess 
those  beautiful  ideals  which  are  the  pas- 
sion of  noble  natures. 

Are  they  blind,  these  flower-crowned, 
joy-seeking  figures ;  or  are  we  blind  who 
297 


Under  the  Trees  and  Elsewhere 

smile  through  tears  at  their  illusions  ? 
On  this  island  there  is  but  one  answer  to 
that  question ;  for  do  we  not  know  that 
they  only  who  believe  and  trust  discern 
the  truth,  and  that  to  faith  and  hope 
alone  is  true  vision  given?  "As  yet 
lingers  the  twelfth  hour  and  the  darkness, 
but  the  time  will  come  when  it  shall  be 
light,  and  man  will  awaken  from  his  lofty 
dreams  and  find  —  his  dreams  all  there, 
and  that  nothing  is  gone  save  his  sleep." 


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